Yesterdays and Tomorrows
by hayleynymphadora
Summary: Cassandra July hated that she couldn't change her yesterdays. Then she met Santana Lopez and her friends Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel, and found hope in her tomorrows once again. Written with images-in-words.
1. Zen and the Art of Color Coding

**Hello my lovelies! I know I shouldn't, but if you know anything about me you know I can't help myself, so I've started another story. This time, with an awesome coauthor and good friend, images-in-words! Although slightly unconventional for me to have a Santana/Cassie pairing instead of Shelandra or PezBerry, I've decided to change it up a bit with this story, and I hope you'll find it tasteful and refreshing. Let us know what you think! Love always, Hayley**

 **Hey, everybody. This is my second collaborative effort with the wonderful and talented Hayley, and I couldn't be more excited to share it with you all. Get ready for all the unusual pairings, sassy dialogue and emotional exploration you can handle. We hope you enjoy reading this story as much as we've enjoyed creating it. Please let us know what you think! ~ images-in-words**

 **Chapter 1: Zen and the Art of Color Coding**

Brooklyn was called "America's Fourth Largest City" at one time, but to the three kids from Lima, Ohio, who stood in the middle of a loft in the Bushwick section of that New York City borough, it might as well have been another planet. They'd been to the larger cities in Ohio, of course - Cleveland, Dayton, Cincinnati - as part of their high school's competitive show choir, but only briefly, and none of those places had looked like this. Brooklyn was tough, forbidding, pretty much nothing like the suburbs in which they'd grown up, but that was exactly what they liked about the place. Well, that and the fact that the rent was cheaper here than anywhere else they'd looked.

Santana Lopez looked out the window with a critical eye. So this was the big, bad Apple? It didn't look like anything she couldn't handle. Her roommates and fellow first-year students at NYADA (the New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts), Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel, were more the typical wide-eyed small town kids, looking around at everything as though they'd just been released from a sensory deprivation tank, but Santana wasn't intimidated. There wasn't much that intimidated her. No, she wasn't _actually_ from the tough Lima Heights Adjacent neighborhood, as she'd often claimed back in high school, but she'd spent enough time there visiting some of her less parentally-approved friends to know how to act in places like this.

 _Don't_ _ **look**_ _like a victim, and you won't_ _ **be**_ _a victim,_ they said. _Damn straight._

She laughed at that last thought. The only straight she was, was straight-up bitch, and this city was about to learn that first-hand. Let Kurt and Rachel tremble at the sheer size of the new world into which they were about to plunge. Santana Lopez knew no fear. She'd survived being a cheerleader under the world's most insane coach, one Sue Sylvester - if she could survive _that_ , she was sure she could survive _anything._

"I still think we waited too long to move in," Kurt called from his position in the loft, looking through the kitchen window. He motioned for movers to put loads of boxes in the corners, knowing that as soon as they left the trio could start to sort through their things and make their new place feel like a home. "I mean we start classes tomorrow."

"Oh, Kurt, where's your sense of adventure?" Rachel piped up, her eyes ever-lit with optimism. Santana couldn't help but roll her eyes. "It's not like we have to unpack everything at once, and-"

"That's easy to say now, before classes have started," Santana cut her off, annoyed at Rachel's logic, which was unreasonable to say the least. "But after tomorrow, we're going to be swamped and frustrated because we're never going to be able to find a damn thing we need if we're constantly having to search through all these boxes…"

Although Kurt had color coded everyone's things, that didn't make their situation less stressful. Of course they'd had to wait until the first to get the keys to the place, and classes just _had_ to start on September 2nd. Santana shook her head, amazed and the number of boxes being dragged into the loft. How could three people own so much stuff?! "I'm never going to find my textbooks _or_ my dance bag in this mess," she sighed. "And I have an 8:30 tomorrow morning. Dance 101. I need my stuff."

"And you'll find it," Kurt waved his hand, blowing her off. "Don't be so negative, you're mucking up the atmosphere."

"I'm doing _what_?" Santana stared him down. "This is a polluted metropolitan concrete jungle, Ladyface. I'm the best thing that's happened to the atmosphere here in _years_."

Kurt huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you say so." His haughty tone clearly indicated that he didn't believe her for a second.

Inserting her small frame between her two friends, Rachel decided it was time to play referee before tempers were lost and harsher words were said. It was far too soon for them to be fighting amongst themselves. No, they should be _celebrating -_ or at least they _would_ be, once the movers were finally done getting all their belongings into the loft. The bottles of wine she had snuck from her fathers' wine cellar would see to that.

"Santana, Kurt, _please._ Let's not fight on our first day here. We've got a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it. Santana, you're right - we shouldn't wait to unpack at least some of our things. Let's find the most important things, the things for which we have the most immediate need, first, and then devote some time each day to unpacking the rest." She couldn't tell whether or not Santana was mollified by her suggestion, so she turned to Kurt. "And Kurt, I'm certain that your color coding system is very nearly as efficacious as mine, so I have no doubt that we'll be able to find said important things quickly and easily. Is this plan agreeable to you?" The fashionable boy nodded, indicating that he was on board. She turned to the other girl. "Santana? Is that acceptable?"

"Sure," she said, letting out a sigh. "I guess so. But if I _can't_ find my dance bag, one of you is buying me a new one - and I assure you, those things are _not_ cheap."

"We will _find_ your dance bag," Rachel rolled her eyes, motioning for Santana to move out of the way of the group of movers positioning their couch in the corner of the loft. "Let's just get everything in here and we'll worry about the rest later. We need to take this one step at a time."

Santana grumbled something unintelligible, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her body against the doorframe of the bathroom while the last few movers finished up and Kurt paid them. "I guess the first thing we need to do then," she spoke and then smirked at Rachel's rapt attention to her wording. "The _first step,_ " she corrected herself. "Would be to sort out these boxes by room and color." she knew if she didn't get on the organization bandwagon they were never going to accomplish anything.

"Right," Kurt pulled the loft door shut and locked it, wiping his hands together. "I'm going to start with my clothes first…" his eyes scanned the labels on the boxes.

"Shocker," Santana made jazz hands at the boy. "We wouldn't want anything to remain folded a minute longer than it absolutely must, after all."

"Ha ha," Kurt deadpanned. "Very funny." He squinted at one of the labels, then clapped his hands happily. "My sweaters! Come to papa…" he said, lifting the box and carrying it to one of the bedrooms, stopping short when he realized that there was no door. "Why...why is there no door to this room?" He looked around the loft, and his face took on a slightly greenish pallor as the true horror of things became clear. "Why are there no doors to _any_ of the bedrooms?" His voice, high even at the calmest of times, came out as a strangled shriek. "Rachel, did you know about this? You know, when you talked to the realtor?"

The petite girl looked back at him with the expression he knew meant she was deep in thought, trying to recall each and every detail of what was said when she'd spoken with both the realtor and the landlord. "No...but maybe that's one of the reasons why the rent is so low," she said slowly. "Oh, well." She shrugged. "We'll adapt. That's what we do, right? We adapt and evolve to the changing circumstances of our lives."

"Changing circumstances? Rachel, I did not sign up for a situation in which one or both of you could possibly see me in any stage of undress! Or, worse, I could see one of _you!_ We have to do something about this!"

Santana could barely suppress her laughter at Kurt's rapidly escalating distress. The poor guy looked like he was about to hyperventilate himself right into a coma.

"Settle down, settle down, Porcelain," she called out. "Calm yourself, please. Or at least go faint on the couch. Everything will be fine. We'll just, like, put up some curtains or something to create the illusion of privacy."

Rachel, who'd been looking glum at her friend's emotional state, brightened at Santana's words. "Yes! That would work. It's both economical and requires minimum manual labor. Very good idea, Santana."

San smirked. "It's a privacy curtain, Hobbit, not a miracle from God…" Rachel's over-enthusiastic nature sometimes drained the energy right out of her. She searched for and found a few of her boxes, color-coded purple. Stacking them on top of each other, she found her previously claimed bedroom and took them there, after which she found her bedframe and dragged it, followed by her mattress. _This is gonna take more effort than I had hoped, and it's already 3:30._ "Can I suggest, if we're going to be busy unpacking 'essentials,' that we order Domino's or something for dinner?" she called from her room, shoving boxes to the side to make room for more. "We really don't have the time to be messing with the kitchen supplies. Santana needs her beauty sleep."

"Santana needs to calm herself," Kurt called back with a loving eye roll. "But pizza isn't a bad idea."

"Pizza is _never_ a bad idea," Rachel added.

"Then it's decided," San took a break from pulling heavy things around and wiped her hands on her pants, pulling her phone out of her back pocket. She made quick work of finding the number to the nearest Domino's and making sure they would deliver before calling and ordering two medium pizzas. One veggie special for Rachel and Kurt, since she knew they were into that sort of thing, the other half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The trio worked in silence for a little while, thankful when their dinner arrived. They multitasked their way through the rest of the night, pulling out essentials like shower supplies, a few dishes, bedding, and clothing for the next few days. By 10:30, the three of them were beat and knew they needed to pull things together for their first day at NYADA, which would come sooner than they hoped.

"I call first shower!" Rachel announced, running towards the bathroom before anybody could actually protest.

"We would expect nothing less," Santana called back, flopping herself down on the couch in their makeshift "living room" which more or less consisted of their sofa, a ton of boxes, and half of an entertainment center (the other half which they still had to assemble). Although Santana absolutely loved dance, she was nervous to start the class at such an early call time. Mornings weren't exactly her thing, and she'd heard stories about her professor being kind of a hard ass. Her muscles were already aching from the move, and she wanted to make a good impression.

"I hope she leaves some hot water for us," Kurt whispered conspiratorially, drawing a soft laugh from Santana.

"I hope there _is_ hot water. And soundproof walls. You just know that Rachel turns a shower into a command performance, with an imaginary audience of thousands."

Moments later, they had their answer regarding the walls, as the first notes of _Defying Gravity_ came through the sound of running water and clanking pipes, loud and clear. Kurt and Santana laughed. The college experience was likely to change all of them in numerous ways, but some things would never change, and Rachel's tendency to sing at every opportunity was one of them.

When an unexpected scream nearly took the bathroom door off its hinges a few minutes after that, making both of them jump in surprise (Kurt throwing the issue of _Vogue_ he'd been leafing through straight up in the air, Santana nearly losing her grip on her phone), they had their answer regarding the hot water. The sound of running water abruptly stopped, and Rachel's furious face, surrounded by a curtain of dripping wet hair, emerged from a crack in the door.

"This is _not_ funny. So don't you _dare_ laugh."

The two of them looked at each other with expressions of disbelief, then threw their heads back and laughed louder than they'd ever laughed in their lives. It almost drowned out the sound of Rachel stomping her foot on the linoleum floor and slamming the bathroom door shut. Almost. Santana knew she'd have to call the building superintendent about the hot water in the morning before she left for class, but this made it all worth it.

She was the only one of the three of them who didn't mind taking a quick cold shower (Kurt didn't have classes until early in the afternoon, so he decided to hope that the water problem would be corrected in time for him to shower before then). It was better for her hair, and good for her muscles since she needed to stretch them out before bed. She did so quickly and then changed into yoga pants and a tank top, making up her bed so she could still get some decent sleep before her 6:30 alarm went off.

 _Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier to just live on campus,_ she sighed, setting the alarm on her phone. _Then I wouldn't have to get up so damned early. Or maybe next semester I'll just try to avoid such early classes. Does NYADA even have night classes?_

She reached down and checked her bag to make sure she had everything she would need for the next day, skimming through her schedule quickly. _Dance 101, Theatre History, and Ballet 100 tomorrow…_ she was thankful, at least, that her schedule started on a Tuesday and hoped that it wouldn't be as bad as having three hard hitting classes on a Monday. _At least they're all in the same building...I have July for BOTH dance classes? Are there no other dance professors? Damn…_

So she was supposed to have the hard ass for not one, but _two_ classes, both of which met twice of week. It was clear to Santana that she was in for one hell of a semester. Suddenly there came a knock at the door frame, diverting her attention. She looked up, adjusting the glasses she hated for anyone to see her wearing. It was Rachel, now dry and calm, looking much less like a spitting cat and more like herself again.

"Yes, short stack? You can come in."

The hastily hung privacy curtain parted, and Rachel stepped into the barely furnished room. "I just wanted to wish you the best of luck tomorrow," the girl said earnestly, twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers. "This is going to be a challenging time for all of us, but if we stick together and support each other like we did in glee club, I know that we can not only meet the challenges ahead, but rise above them with flying colors."

Santana found that she had to smile. Yes, Rachel's excitability and ebullience could be - and frequently was - exhausting, but the little diva cared more than anybody she'd ever known. The heart on her sleeve beat 24/7 with positivity and good intentions, and Santana found that strangely admirable, if slightly insane.

"Thanks, Rachel. Good luck to you too. Now go rest those golden vocal cords of yours - I'm sure you've also got a big day ahead of you."

Beaming her signature megawatt smile, Rachel clapped her hands together softly. "Yes, I certainly do. And I can't wait for it to arrive! It _is_ the first step on the road to stardom for me, after all. And you'll be able to say you were there when it happened."

"Oh, joy. Well, on that not at all narcissistic note - goodnight, Rachel."

"Goodnight, Santana." With that, the girl marched out of the room as though she was headed right onto the Broadway stage. And maybe she _was,_ at that. Rachel had always been ambitious, working towards this dream since early childhood. Still, Santana had to roll her eyes one last time at the girl before she tossed her class schedule back into her bag, turned out the lamp on her nightstand, and closed her eyes. Faintly, she heard Rachel making the same speech in Kurt's room as sleep began to claim her. Before she knew it, she was as out as the lamp.


	2. Biting the Big Apple

**Thank you to those of you who have already started reading, following, and reviewing this story! Feedback is everything to us, so please let us know what you're thinking while you read. I'm having an amazing time writing this story, and I know my coauthor feels the same way. Without further ado, we present to you the newest chapter. Enjoy! Love always, Hayley**

 **I would also like to express my gratitude to everybody who's taken the time to read, follow and favorite our humble little tale. We strive for quality, and we aim to please. I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as the first. Thanks, too, to my partner in wordsmithing, the fabulous Hayley, whose enthusiasm for this project is bringing it to new heights on a nightly basis. ~ images-in-words**

 **Chapter 2: "Biting the Big Apple"**

True to form, regardless of the helpful alarm clock, Santana woke up late. She woke to the sound of a bowl hitting the kitchen counter a little too harshly and jolted, remembering where she was and checking her phone immediately. "Shit!" She practically fell out of bed and reached for her dance clothes, stripping off her pajamas as quickly as she could manage.

Annoyed as all hell, she smacked the wall next to her, which was connected to Kurt's room. "Why. The. Hell. Didn't. You. Wake. Me. Porcelain?!" She yelled a word with each bang, pulling on a pair of burgundy spandex shorts, a black sports bra, and over-the-shoulder black long sleeve. It would do for her first class, but she would have to change for ballet. That was why she needed the bag. "It's 7:30! Kurt, I'm going to be so late…"

"It's not my responsibility to wake you!" Kurt defended, standing with his hands on his hips in the frame of Santana's room. "Why didn't you get up when your alarm went off?"

"Like I know!" Santana pushed past him and grabbed a couple protein bars from a food box in the kitchen, pouring herself a to-go mug of coffee. "I'm not going to have enough time to warm up." She heard Rachel running scales in her bedroom and rolled her eyes. "Unlike Songbird over there."

"You know Rachel wakes up before the sun does," Kurt shook his head, taking his time to carefully pour himself a mug of coffee, adding some cream and sugar to the steaming hot brew. His first class didn't start until 1:30. "Don't blame her for your problem."

Santana glared daggers at him until he held his hands up in surrender.

"I'm just saying."

San made her way into the bathroom to brush her long mess of hair and pull it up into a dancer's bun. She scrambled to find the bobby pins and hair spray, finished it off, then reached into a bag next to the sink that had her makeup in it. With little time to spare, she skipped her foundation and went straight to her eyeliner and mascara. It would have to do for today.

After finishing up her bathroom routine, she headed back to her room, grabbed her bag, and ran out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind her. _It's not like they wouldn't have gotten up to do it if you forgot, dumbass,_ she chastised herself. She hated feeling rushed and scrambled like this, and it didn't happen often. _You need to relax, it's just school._

But it wasn't _just_ school. It meant a lot more to her than high school did, and she knew that. Getting into this school was the best thing, career wise, that could have ever happened to her. It meant the world to her, and she wanted to take this opportunity to really show what she could do, and prove herself. Being late on the first day wasn't the best way to do that.

. . .

Cassandra July rolled her neck to stretch it, before uncapping her vodka and pouring it into her "protein smoothie", slapping the top onto her blender. "Another semester," she sighed to herself, her voice low. "What minds can I corrupt this go-around?" she poured her smoothie into her tumbler and capped it, taking a sip. "Do I have fresh meat today?" she asked herself out loud, flipping through a file on her kitchen counter. "Mmm. I do. Perfect." She grabbed her keys and slammed her apartment door behind her, a cab stopping before her practically the minute she stepped onto the curb outside her building. She had that effect on people.

"NYADA Campus," she murmured to the driver, digging through her bag to make sure she had everything she needed for the day. The first day was always chaos, and being unprepared at NYADA was the downfall for most of the professors. Not for Cassandra July. Not when she was such close friends with Carmen Tibideaux, NYADA's headmistress, which was rare in itself. She knew she had to be on her game. Though some might argue the alcohol would prevent that, she would tell them otherwise-her body was so used to it that without it, she'd be finished.

When she made it to her studio, most of the tension left her body. It was her relaxation space, her sanctuary. The only place she felt like she could breathe, feel, and do what she was best at. With a half an hour before her first class, she downed the rest of her protein shake and took to the bar to stretch.

"Let the games begin."

Rachel sipped at her honey infused tea and looked at her watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. "Kurt," she said absently, "I'm a little worried about Santana. I overheard your conversation with her before she left."

"How did you hear us over the sound of your own voice?" Kurt was incredulous. He bit into one of the apples he'd brought with them from Lima, then waited until he'd chewed ten times on each side of his mouth and swallowed the sweet fruit before continuing. "No offense, but you probably generate as many decibels as a jet engine when you really get going."

Sticking her tongue out at him, Rachel tartly replied, "I don't know whether to feel complimented or insulted by that remark. To answer your question, I have exceptionally good hearing in addition to perfect pitch." She blew on her steaming beverage, silently willing it to cool a couple of degrees. "And she sounded very much out of sorts to me. I mean, honestly - blaming _you_ for her sleeping through her alarm? Then again, maybe she's just nervous. She _does_ have a class with the infamous Cassandra July today, after all."

Kurt's head angled up from the _Vogue_ magazine he was perusing. He took another bite of apple, chewed, swallowed, then spoke. "What a way to start your NYADA career. I'd be nervous, too. I mean, at a school like this, you expect the professors' reputations to precede them, but not quite in the way hers does. _Legendary_ is the word, yes, but...poor Santana!"

"Cassandra July was a legend well before all those...other things happened. It's a shame she's now known more as a cautionary tale than as a tremendously talented performer." Rachel took a larger sip of her tea, now that it had cooled slightly. "If her career hadn't been cut short, she very well could have revolutionized dance in musical theater as we know it."

"Right. And if Sue Sylvester were only slightly _more_ insane, she could be running North Korea. The fact is, Ms. July earned her fate. I just hope she doesn't run Santana off like I've heard she's run off so many other talented students. Why Madam Tibideaux allows her to behave as she does, I'll never understand."

"You talk about all the students she's run off, but what about all the people she's taught who have gone on to be very successful, and given her a lot of the credit for it? I say you have to be tough to prepare people for what the world of show business is _really_ like."

Kurt made a face at her, clearly not convinced. "There's _tough_ , and then there's _slightly unhinged._ I'm just saying Santana needs to be careful, that's all." He took another bite of his apple, examined it, threw the remaining bit in the trash. "Knowing her, she'll try to go toe to toe with the woman - and _that_ would be a very bad idea."

. . .

 _Isn't this just fanfuckingtastic,_ Santana thought. She heaved a sigh as she shuffled through her bag for her student ID so she could get through the front doors. She had to swipe it three times to get it to unlock and made her way at last through the halls of the esteemed performing arts school. She checked her watch. _Why the hell did this have to happen today? I am never out of sorts like this. Jesus, Lopez._ She stopped for a minute to figure out where she was going and then sighed again when she realized that the studio she needed to be in was upstairs and she had only three minutes to make it to warm up. _Oh, for fuck's sake._

Trying desperately to hide the fact that she was a complete mess, she took the stairs two at a time and managed to find the studio with one minute to spare. She let out a small breath of relief and straightened her clothing as she pulled open one of the double doors, slipping into the dance studio to find all eyes trained on her. Biting her lip, she continued to walk through the studio and to the back where she could set her things down and start to stretch. Nobody said a word, but a few low whistles echoed and Santana wondered what the hell the deal was. She'd made it before the hour, hadn't she? _Or is my clock wrong?_

"Nice of you to join us," A smooth, amused voice called from the front corner of the room. Santana looked up from fixing her jazz shoes and saw that she was standing about twenty feet away from the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen in her life. The black leotard the woman wore hugged her chest and hips in all the right places, perfectly form fitting and flowing down one leg. She wore fishnets and jazz shoes and her long, lean leg muscles looked positively deadly. Her chiseled abs could be seen clearly through her clothing, too. Oddly, she carried an oak cane, which she banged on the floor with each word she spoke. The higher up Santana's eyes trailed the more she lost her train of thought. The woman's jaw line was set and sharp, her tanned skin complimentary to her shining emerald eyes and long blonde hair. She looked flawless. She looked important.

 _She looks like a bitch._

"Sorry I'm late," Santana heard herself mumbling. "I don't live on campus."

 _What the hell was that, Lopez? Some lame-ass excuse is what it was. What is_ _ **up**_ _with you today? Are you really going to let yourself be intimidated by this woman? That's exactly what she wants._

The blonde woman raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and let out a deep laugh.

"Ms…" she paused, either for dramatic effect or because she was trying to remember Santana's name. "Lopez, is it? I assume you know enough about this school to understand that being late to a class, no matter what the excuse, is unacceptable. It can't happen again."  
Santana looked around at her fellow students, most of whom were trying and failing to hide expressions of amusement or disdain when they met her eye. She was not a person who ever felt nervous or intimidated, but the discomfort that made the back of her neck itch and her feet shuffle in place was as close as she'd ever gotten in her young life - especially with the blonde woman's piercing gaze boring down upon her. _Holy shit,_ she thought. _And I thought Coach Sue was deranged. This woman looks straight-up out of her mind._

Something inside her, some instinct for self-preservation, kicked in, and the barbed reply she would have unleashed on just about anyone back in Lima died in her throat. Instead, she did her best to look contrite, met the blonde's eyes and said, "I...my alarm didn't wake me on time. I'll make sure that it doesn't happen again."

"And if it does," the blonde woman said, a humorless smile drawing the corners of her mouth upward. "You'll be washing the entire class' dancewear for the rest of the semester. Am I clear?"

 _Wait, what?_ Santana screamed in her mind. _Do I_ _ **look**_ _like your fucking maid?_

She wanted to give voice to that thought, but savagely bit back on the desire. Nothing good could possibly come of antagonizing anybody on her first day here. This wasn't Lima. She'd admittedly gotten away with a hell of a lot of stuff back home, but she knew that wouldn't fly here. She had to be careful. It had taken the audition of her life to get into this place. It wouldn't do for her to mouth off and lose everything right on the first day of school.

"Yes," she said quietly, still mesmerized by the blonde woman's intense gaze.

The cane rapped down on the floor, hard.

"I _said -_ am I _clear?_ This is the part, in case you're too dim to figure it out, where you say, 'Clear, Ms. July,' and then nod like a complete moron. So let's try that again, shall we? _Am. I. CLEAR?"_

Santana actually winced as the woman's words landed like the lashes of a whip on her unprotected skin. Coach Sue could take lessons from this crazy bitch. She looked like she was about half a second away from launching herself at her, wrestling her to the ground, and choking her to death with that stupid-ass cane.

"Clear, Ms. July," she said, gritting her teeth. "Clear as crystal."

"Mmmm." Cassie gave a nod and spun on her heel, pulling her cane up to her shoulders and swinging back and forth as she walked. "Hello, Class. Welcome to NYADA. This is Dance 101, and as you've just seen thanks to your classmate, I don't tolerate any bullshit here. You are not in small town Ohio, Michigan, Iowa, or Nebraska anymore. You may have been good back where you're from, but you're at NYADA because there's an ever so small chance that we can make you _great_. By the time this hour is over, if you aren't suffering from severe body dysmorphia, then you don't WANT this ENOUGH." She rapped her cane on the floor again. "Since we've wasted half of our warm up, I suggest you start now."

Half of the class stared at her wordlessly, dumbfounded by their new professor. She smirked and leaned against her cane. "Let me dumb this down for you, fresh meat. Here at NYADA, we are the best of the best. And being _good_? Not good enough. If you don't show me every single second how much you want this, you're out the door. A few of you are good enough to make it in show business and as for the rest of you? Thank you for paying the rent on my loft in SoHo. Now MOVE. YOUR. ASSES."

That got everyone into high gear.

For the next hour, the group of young students were put through the most punishing set of paces they had ever experienced. Cassandra July - for this could only be her, Santana belatedly realized - was the devil in a leotard. She barked orders in a voice loud and sharp enough to peel the paint off the walls, and did so without the aid of an amplifying megaphone, unlike Coach Sue, and was not at all averse to physically demonstrating to a student exactly what he or she was doing incorrectly. It quickly became obvious that the woman knew what she was talking about, despite her questionable methods. Santana decided that if she could just ignore the professor's abrasive personality, she would learn a great deal in this class.

If she survived it.

By the time the cane-wielding dictator shouted, "That's our time for today! Get the hell out of my studio," Santana was hurting in places she didn't know she had. The ache was everywhere, inescapable, travelling the entire length of her body. When she realized that she still had other classes to attend after this, she wanted to cry, or throw herself down the stairs. What was worse? She had another one of _Cassandra's_ classes after this, in a few short hours. As she hobbled towards the doors, Ms. July's voice slashed the air, cutting through the fog of her weariness like a razor through tissue paper.

"Ms. Lopez. A word, please."

Santana stopped in her tracks, hanging her head. She barely suppressed a groan as she turned to face the emerald-eyed demon.

"Yes?"

The woman grinned like a feral cat preparing for playtime with a mouse. It was unnerving. Santana shivered, knowing that whatever was about to take place probably wasn't going to be pleasant.

"I just want to let you know that if you ever disrespect me in front of the class again, you will not be allowed to return. You are _not_ going to undermine my authority within the walls of this studio. It's one strike and you're out. Do you understand me?"

Blinking dumbly, Santana nodded. The sheer force of this woman's personality was…it was a _lot_. It was like, if Rachel ever went over to the Dark Side, this is what she would be. She made a mental note to thank her friend for always using her powers for good and never for evil.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Wonder Boobs." Santana hadn't even been aware that she'd been looking at her feet, at the floor, anywhere but at the furious ball of barely contained rage standing before her. She raised her head, forcing herself to look the woman directly in the face. "I asked you a question. Do...you... _understand_...me?"

"Yes. I mean, _yes_ , Ms. July. I understand."

"Good," the blonde sneered. "Now go home and try to think of ways not to fail this class, if that's not beyond your capabilities."

Instead of informing her that she'd see her later that afternoon, Santana decided to nod and get out of there before things could get any worse. She was already in too much trouble to argue, and her body needed to be iced before her next class. She made it through the doors and let out the deep breath she didn't know she'd been holding. _What a morning. I'm barely going to be able to walk tomorrow...where the hell is my academic advisor and why does he hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?!_

. . .

Cassie rolled her neck and walked to her desk in her office, still in stilettos from her 12 pm ballroom dance class. It was lunch and about damn time for another smoothie. Reaching for her mini-fridge, she pulled out a water bottle full of vodka, some vanilla yogurt, and a hand full of fruit, mixing them in her tumbler with a hand blender. Her head throbbed.

"Why do I continue to teach…" she mumbled to herself, sipping her concoction. She knew the answer, of course. Teaching was her last hope and she was thankful that Carmen still let her after the mess she'd caused in the Broadway world. "Suck it up, July. You've got a whole afternoon and evening ahead of you." She knocked back the rest of her smoothie and fell back into her chair at her desk, feeling defeated. Everything felt so routine, so programmed...she could hardly stand it. She missed being around her friends from the theatre, back before she was a complete alcoholic. Holly and Shelby always knew how to make her smile. Now only alcohol and dance could do that, and sometimes even that didn't feel like enough.

She pushed a salad around with a fork and bit the inside of her cheek, staring at her office door in thought. _Freshmen this year aren't looking like they're going to exceed expectations...besides maybe Wonder Boobs. She has potential. I doubt she'll use it, but she's got it._ She continued to pretend to eat, a performance for an audience of none. _Maybe tomorrow's classes will be better._

They wouldn't be, she knew - but it was fun to pretend, sometimes.

Cassandra stood up from her desk and put her lunch back in the fridge, taking the vodka bottle and downing the rest of it, tossing the empty container in the trash. Feeling the pleasant burn of the alcohol entering her system, she stretched out her back and returned to her studio. Maybe some pointe work would distract her for a while. This was her conference period, after all.

Her blissful alone time didn't last long, however, and before she knew it she heard the doors to her studio swing open, students in pointe shoes piling in. Among one group she could have sworn she caught sight of the girl from her morning class. Lopez. She double blinked and moved to the windows to close the blinds. No one was dumb enough to schedule her twice in one day, were they?

She spun back around after the room darkened significantly and scoffed, the black hair and wide brown eyes unmistakeable now. "Would you look who it is," she drawled, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. "What's the matter, Lopez? You didn't get enough this morning?"

Santana, who'd been trying her damnedest to sneak into the room unnoticed, narrowed her eyes at the woman, clearly hearing the challenge. "I came to NYADA to dance."

Cassandra July narrowed her eyes, attempting to glare a hole through the mouthy girl who still, incredibly, hadn't learned her lesson. Well, she was going to learn now.

"You did, did you? Well, that's nice. If you look around the room, you will see that a number of other people did as well. People with the same hopes and dreams as you. But you know what? I'm looking at them and seeing that they _want_ it. They _need_ it. They _eat, sleep and breathe_ it. I look at you and...I don't see it." The instructor paused, tilting her head, stepping dangerously close to Santana. "I see a girl who was hot shit back home, who thinks everything's going to go the same way for her here as it did there. Who thinks she's special and privileged and so much better than everybody else. Well, it doesn't matter what you _think_. What matters, in _here_ , and out _there_ in the real world, is what you can _do_. And if you can't do what I _tell_ you to do in here, there's no _way_ you're going to make it out there."

"And what makes you think I can't?" Santana stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. It wasn't mouthing off if she could prove herself, right?

Cassandra actually laughed, looking the girl up and down. "Were you not present for this morning's class?" She waved her hand dismissively. "I've seen what you can do. And I want to see better."

 _I'll show you better, blondie. I'll show you the best you've ever_ _ **seen**_ _._

As she had in the earlier class, Santana worked hard. She pushed past the pain and fatigue, blocking out everything but Cassandra July's shouted commands and the movements of her own body. Sweat flowed from her pores, making her skin glow in the natural light coming through the large sheer curtains on the windows, and she panted and cursed under her breath as she willed herself past a point of exhaustion she'd never even reached on the practice field as a cheerleader. Adrenaline carried her along like a wave, fueling her efforts, but some part of her mind knew that when it was all over she'd be lucky if she didn't need to call Kurt or Rachel to help her get home.

The ninety minutes of class time flew by, and when Cassandra July finally called time, Santana slumped down against a wall and wondered if her feet would ever forgive her.

 _Two dance classes in one day...what the hell was I thinking? I can't drop either one of them now, not after taking up Ms. July's challenge. I'll just have to get through the semester somehow. My pride is at stake here._

The other students slowly filed out, mumbling to themselves or otherwise verbalizing their various aches and pains, and Santana realized that she had to make an attempt to get out of there before the human torture device known as Cassandra July came for her again. She took a deep breath and pushed herself up, her abused muscles screaming in protest. _Ugh. Better call Rachel, or Kurt, or maybe an ambulance. If I fall somewhere, I might not be able to get back up._

She felt the instructor's eyes on her, and her skin prickled with the sensation. Wondering what the woman could possibly want from her now, she turned to face her, waiting expectantly. "Yes? Am I in for another private, one-sided conversation?" she asked wearily. "Because if I am, could you please make it quick? There's a bed in Bushwick that's calling my name."

It took quite a bit to get Cassandra to laugh - really, truly _laugh_ \- but Santana's helpless, exhausted expression, the visible rubberiness of her limbs, were such a contrast to the defiant attitude she was still somehow attempting to project...well, it was adorable in a kind of pathetic way. She just _had_ to laugh. It was going to be fun to see if this one broke or got stronger as time went on. Right now, she placed the odds at 50-50.

"Wait." She ambled over to her mini-fridge and pulled out two small bottles of water - _actual_ water - and handed one to the surprised girl. "You didn't completely suck this afternoon. Keep it up, and you might have a chance to be more than slightly mediocre."

Santana hid her pleased smile by opening the bottle and taking a sip. "Um...thanks? I guess," she said. "You know, you remind me of someone. I hated her."

"Did you? Good," Cassandra replied, taking a swig of the ice-cold water. "That probably means she pushed you around some. Girls like you need to be pushed around."

Santana cocked her head, feeling insulted. "What do you know about 'girls like me?'"

"Plenty. I used to be one. All full of myself, completely certain that the world is in a hurry to fall at my feet. And for a time, it did. Then life taught me that was all an illusion, a giant freaking lie. It humbled me. Now it's my mission to humble girls like you, before they get out into the real world and suffer like I suffered. Because the truth is, as bad as you think I am, I'm nothing compared to real life. I may be a bitch, but life...life is a bigger bitch than I could ever be."

There was something haunted in the woman's eyes as she spoke, something both far away and present in the room with them, an old ache in her voice. Santana couldn't begin to imagine what it might be, but she wanted to know. There was something in it that she recognized in herself, somehow. Something that had taken almost everything she had to get past, and even then, she'd only succeeded with the help of her friends.

Did this woman even _have_ any friends? Suddenly she found herself wondering.

Abruptly, Cassandra turned away, stretching her arms over her head, as if she was suddenly incredibly bored. "Okay, that's your life lesson for today. You can crawl back to your trashy little hovel in Brooklyn now. We're done here."

"Yeah. Thanks for the water." Santana drank a little more, then replaced the cap and shuffled out of the room, leaving the troubled blonde to her memories, and her pain.


	3. Flashbacks and Callbacks

**Chapter 3: Flashbacks and Callbacks**

"That's it!" Kurt set his glass of water down on the table, exhausted and slightly annoyed. "It's day three of NYADA classes and none of us have said a word to each other since Tuesday morning. What gives?"

Santana swallowed her mouthful of green beans and took a sip from her water, mulling over her response before admitting, "I've been too tired to care."

"Because of Cassandra July, I suspect." Rachel declared, lifting her head off the hand in which it had been resting. "No, I believe it. Especially since you have _two_ classes with her! Honestly, Santana, I'm impressed. Your stamina must be extraordinary."

"Something like that," Santana rolled her eyes and took another listless bite of food. She couldn't tell if she was more hungry or tired. She decided to just finish eating before crawling into bed. It had been her second full day with the dance instructor from hell, and her legs felt like jelly.

"She's a monster," Rachel continued, talking and eating at the same time. It was rare Rachel found a situation where she couldn't multitask, and dinner was no exception. "Yesterday I saw her chase a student out of the room just because he messed up a turn and was too proud to admit it in front of her. She cornered him, got in his face, and made the boy cry."

Although Santana didn't doubt the story was true, she shrugged it off like it was nothing. "Yeah, she's a bitch, but I think she has her reasons for it."

"I used to think that, too, until I started class with her." Rachel shook her head in disbelief. "Now I'm not sure _what_ to think."

"If she's that bad, why does Madam Tibideaux let her teach?" Kurt interrupted. He was the only one of the three of them who didn't have Cassandra July as a teacher this semester, and he was almost upset by it. It meant he was an outsider during the conversation that _he'd_ started.

"She's good at her job," Santana stated simply, finishing off a third dinner roll. _Why am I so hungry? Must be because of all the energy I've been burning…_ "That's all there is to it. I mean, have you seen her dance?"

"No, I haven't." Kurt was growing impatient. "That's why I asked."

Tossing her napkin down onto her plate, Santana stood up from her chair and winced at the sharp, heavy pain in her legs. She stretched her body backwards and pushed her arms up as high as they would go, hearing multiple cracks as she did so. "Look, Porcelain. I spend enough time with that woman during the day. I really don't feel like talking about her when I get home, too. So either you change the subject or I'm going to drag my ass to the couch and stay there until my class tomorrow at noon."

"On a _much_ happier note," Rachel said, getting the signal from Santana. "I spoke to Quinn last night. Well, not _spoke,_ but texted. She's settling in well at Yale, but she says she misses me terribly, and you two as well."

"That's great!" Kurt exclaimed, smiling. His expression turned serious. "Who would have thought that Quinn Fabray, the dreaded Ice Queen of McKinley High, would end up locking lips with Rachel, and missing the rest of us Glee Club alumni?"

Santana chuckled. "If you didn't see what was going on with Quinn in high school, Ladyface, you just weren't paying attention. She was repressed as all hell, but she always had a thing for our little mini-Streisand."

"Our love is truly one for the ages," Rachel sighed. "I wish I'd seen it sooner, but Quinn always _was_ kind of a mystery. She kept everything so close to the vest, so bottled up inside - no one was actually more shocked than _I_ was when she confessed her feelings."

"In front of _everyone_ , no less. It was quite the extraordinary moment. Like something out of a great drama, or at least a quality TV-movie," Kurt joked around a sip of water. "Completely adorable. Mercedes even cried, remember?"

"What about you, Kurt? Have you seen anyone on campus who's tickled your feather boa?" Santana speared a particularly sad-looking green bean with her fork, twirled it around in a slow, lazy circle. "There's got to be a ton of happening boys around here getting your loins all a-quiver."

Kurt stuck his tongue out at the ex-cheerleader as he spread some butter on a dinner roll (there weren't many left, thanks to Santana). "Let's leave my loins out of this conversation, please. Yes, there are gorgeous boys all over the place here, but let's face it - I'm just a fresh-faced nobody from the most _boring_ town in Ohio. Who's going to notice me?"

"Don't say that, Kurt! I'm sure that there are plenty of people who would return your interest if you were to, you know, let them know you were interested in them."

 _Ah, there's that patented Rachel positivity we've all come to know and loathe,_ Santana thought. "Right - because nothing says 'hot nights' like a boy who can't even watch a kissing scene in a movie."

"I can't help it!" Kurt protested. "I always think about how stressful it is for the actors to film those scenes."

"And yet here you are, hoping to become an actor. Makes _perfect_ sense."

"Maybe not. I'm thinking about switching to costume design, or maybe hair and makeup. I'm conflicted. I mean, I _love_ performing, I really do, but I love all that other stuff too."

Rachel was horrified. As she turned in her chair to face him, her knife and fork clattered to the table. She grabbed the boy by the arm, ignoring his soft _ow!_ "Kurt, _no!_ You can't deprive the world of your angelic voice. I simply won't let you do that."

"Why not? It's his life. If he's decided that he'd rather be behind the scenes than on stage, that's fine. This is a tough business. Good for you, Ladyface," Santana said, punctuating her words with stabs of her fork, the sad green bean still impaled upon it.

"That's just it - I _haven't_ decided." He bit his lip, the conflict within him clearly visible on his pale face. "I mean, I know I have gifts in both areas." Rachel brightened with hope. "But every time I think about some of things I would have to do as an actor, I...I don't know if I could." Rachel frowned, squeezing his arm again. Kurt swatted lightly at her hand, and she released her grip. "Is that weird, that something I've dreamed about doing my whole life might not be what I'm really meant to do?"

"I don't think it's weird at all," Santana replied, her tone light but serious. "This is the time in our lives for us to make choices about what we want to do and who we want to be. You might change your mind more than once." She looked Kurt straight in the eye, wanting him to know that whatever happened, whatever he decided, she cared about him and had his back. "Just make sure that if you do choose to be a costume designer or whatever else, that you're the best damned one there is, and that you won't ever let anyone or anything stop you. Promise me that."

Kurt stared into the ex-cheerleader's eyes and saw nothing but sincerity in them. He was touched. Then he remembered back to what he had endured in high school, how much Santana had done for him through some of the most difficult times of his life, and he was reminded of what a true friend she really was, despite her snarky attitude and tough exterior.

"I...I promise, Santana. Thank you."

Rachel sighed, a sad look on her pretty face. "Oh, Kurt. What about that dream we had of singing together on stage one day? Does this mean it can't ever happen?"

"Never say never, Rachel. And if we don't sing on stage, we can still sing together here, or wherever else we might be." He covered her hand with his, smiling gently.

"But not now," Santana cracked. "I needs me a nap, so you two songbirds better not keep me awake."

"A nap?" Rachel scrunched her nose, rising from the table with her plate in hand. "Santana, it's seven o'clock - and we're supposed to be going to Callbacks tonight."

"We aren't leaving until 8:30!" Santana exclaimed, taking care of her plate and making her way into her bedroom. "If your delusional little ass thinks I'll be able to get through hours of listening to Broadway wannabes sing without some kind of rest beforehand, you're crazy."

"Santana, you better set your alarm!" Kurt called out to her as he picked up his own plate. "Seriously, I will _not_ be held responsible if you aren't ready. We're supposed to be meeting Rachel's friend Brody..." He let his voice trail off.

There was a beat of silence, then Kurt yelled again.

"Santana!"

"Please, Lady Hummel - you're ruining my prime napping time!" Santana pounded the wall, and that was the end of that conversation.

Rachel cleared off the rest of the dishes and set the kettle on the stove for tea. "Well, nice Santana was fun while she lasted." She washed her hands and then made sure the stove was turned up so her water would boil. "I'm going to get ready. Brody and I were planning a duet tonight, and it's NYADA tradition to sing at Callbacks if you're a student. Hope you have something in your repertoire!"

Kurt smiled to himself. _Of course I'd never stop singing permanently, Rachel - I don't know why you were worried. You'd never let that happen._ As he moved towards his own room, he began to think about what song would most impress tonight's crowd. Whether he chose to sing or design, he was still a NYADA student, after all.

. . .

Rachel stared impatiently at her laptop screen, waiting for Quinn to answer her Skype call. It had already been too long since she'd last seen her exquisitely beautiful face, and Rachel was aching to hear her voice as well. Nothing - except maybe Barbra singing "Send in the Clowns" - was as thrilling to Rachel's ears as Quinn's soft, breathy voice. There really wasn't anything else quite like it in all the world, as far as she was concerned.

Then, at last, the screen brightened, and there she was, somehow looking movie star glamorous even in an oversized Yale sweatshirt and sleep shorts. She had her cornsilk blonde hair up in a messy bun, with flyaways all over. She hadn't had it cut since before graduation; when it was down, it reached her shoulders. Rachel let out a little squeal of delight at finally seeing her girlfriend for the first time since they'd all left for college.

"Hey, you," Quinn said, smiling. "Long time, no see."

"Too long," Rachel pouted. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too. It's weird not seeing everybody every day like we used to. So much has changed in such a short time. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it all."

"I know. It's so strange. I'm having a hard time sleeping without you next to me."

"Same here. And my roommate is _terrible_. She talks in her sleep - and you should hear the things she says! Oh my God. It's mortifying." She covered her face with her hands and giggled that adorable little laugh that always warmed Rachel's insides. Quinn's soft soprano voice sounded like home. How she'd missed hearing it!

"At least _your_ bedroom has a door on it. We just have curtains. Or did I tell you that already? Anyway, I'm not sure that Kurt's gotten over it yet. He still changes his clothes in the bathroom. And you should have seen his face when he saw Santana in just a bra and sweats!"

Quinn laughed again. "Oh, Kurt. God bless him. I hope he never changes. The world needs more Kurts in it."

"Agreed. But he told us tonight that he's thinking of changing his major from musical theater to costume design, or hair and makeup. I'm devastated."

Rachel made an exaggerated sad face, drawing another laugh from Quinn. She loved being able to make her normally reserved girlfriend crack up. It was a shame that others rarely got to see this relaxed, un-made up version of Quinn, she thought; but then again, she loved that Quinn only ever shared this side of herself with her.

"Well, he's always had an interest in design, as bizarre as some of his tastes were. Remember that weird half-sweater thing he wore once? And _only_ once, as I recall."

Now it was Rachel's turn to laugh. "Oh, God, yes. I don't know what he was thinking with that. I mean, ultimately I'll support him in whatever he decides to do, but his voice is just so beautiful. It would be a crime if the world never got to hear it."

" _Rachel_. You've had your heart and mind set on Broadway since you were three years old." Quinn's expression was serious. "Not everyone has the luxury of being so sure of themselves for their entire lives. Please don't try to push him into taking the direction you think is best. I mean, I haven't even decided what _my_ major is going to be, and you haven't said anything about that."

"That's because I know better. Besides, Kurt's not like you, all strong-willed and intense. He's probably going to fight with himself over this for a while. I just want him to be happy. Just like I want _you_ to be happy."

"I _am_ happy, Rachel. Because I'm with _you_. Well, not _with_ you, right now, but you know what I mean." She looked at her watch. "Not that I want to cut this short, but didn't you tell me you guys were going out to some karaoke place tonight?"

"Oh my goodness, you're right. I'm so sorry, Quinn. Can we Skype again tomorrow, maybe?"

"I don't know - I've got a _lot_ of homework to do. But we'll see. I love you, Rachel."

"To the moon and back." Rachel blew the other girl a kiss, watched her pretend to catch it on the screen. "Text me later, please?"

"I will. Have a good time, and tell Kurt and Santana I said hi."

"You know I will. Oh, that reminds me - did I tell you about the horrible dance teacher San and I both have? She's like some underworld criminal mastermind in tights."

Quinn laughed again. "Oh, come on, Rachel. She can't be _that_ bad. But I'm intrigued. Tell me more later, okay?"

"Absolutely. Bye for now!"

"Bye!"

. . .

The apartment was dark, but Cassandra preferred it that way. It kept the headaches from getting out of control. She set up a hot foot bath for herself and poured in some epsom salts for good measure. Dancing all day, every day, was something she would do even if she hadn't become an instructor at NYADA, but it definitely took its toll on her body. She let out a soft moan at the soothing sensation of the hot water on her feet, which instantly relaxed her. Leaning back into her couch, she felt truly relaxed for the first time all week.

Already, she'd decided she was staying in for the night. Although she usually went out somewhere that could distract her from her own thoughts, she needed to be out of the media's eye for her own mental health, and anywhere she went they usually followed. It was tiring to say the least. She'd figured after ten years they'd give it a rest and move on to the next sorry semi-celebrity trainwreck, but apparently that was not the case.

Puffing up her cheeks and then letting her breath out slowly, she pulled up her laptop to check her email, knowing she was would probably delete half of them. She'd hoped that somewhere in her inbox she'd find an email from Holly, but the woman moved around a lot with her job and it had been months since Cassie had heard from her. At one point in time, the two of them had been best friends. Inseparable. She hadn't heard from Shelby in a while, either. While the two of them weren't as close as she and Holly had been, she was always a great person to have around. Besides, Cass figured Shelby would be amused by the fact that she had her daughter as a freshman this year. But she doubted Shelby would answer. She was a busy woman, too.

 _And you tossed her aside in your narcissistic battle to the top just like you did Holly, you heartless bitch,_ Cassie scolded herself. She spent so many nights regretting the past, told herself every day would be the last day she would punish herself. Clearly that was just another lie to help her sleep at night. She thought about Rachel Berry, who really, painfully, reminded her a lot of Shelby. _Shelby was much more talented though,_ She thought to herself. _At least when it comes to dance. I haven't heard the girl sing._ Absently, she wondered if Rachel sounded like her mother, then pushed the thought away.

Reaching over to the coffee table, her hands found their way to the bottle of whiskey she'd put there. Now that she was at home she could drink something stronger, something that wasn't as undetectable as vodka. Not that anyone would ever notice she was usually drunk.

 _They'd probably notice more if I wasn't._ Cassie smiled a humorless, rueful smile. _All the same, I'm not going anywhere else tonight. Thursdays are for relaxing, Wednesdays are for one-night stands._

 _Is this really how you want to live your life?_ She asked herself, acutely aware how pathetic she was acting and how much of a hypocrite she was. She spent all day pushing the younger generation to be their best and kick ass and what was she doing? _You're working a job Carmen gave to you out of pity because no one else would work with you. Talent doesn't mean shit. Not when you do the things I've done. Of course you don't want to live this way. But what other way is there, now? People don't give second chances. You know they don't exist._

That was why she never bothered to write to Holly, or Shelby, or any of her other friends from college or her previous career. There was no point. It wasn't like they were ever going to respond.

She polished off the bottle of whiskey and stepped out of her foot bath, drying off with a towel she kept next to her chair before taking herself to her bedroom and slamming the door behind her, angry and weary. She would sleep alone tonight.

. . .

Elliott Gilbert hated his name. Always had. He had never felt like an "Elliott," much less like a "Gilbert," in his life. A New Yorker born and bred, his dreams were as large as the city he called home, and he needed a name and an identity that would serve as a true reflection of who he really was. So while he was forced to go by "Elliott" at his nondescript day job, by night he became someone else. By night, in the clubs, he transformed into the entity he was always meant to be, the larger than life persona that still barely contained his yearning to break away from the stultifyingly ordinary upbringing to which his parents had subjected him.

He was...Starchild.

Starchild was everything that Elliott Gilbert could never be. He was bold, boisterous, flamboyant. He owned every room he entered, commanded every stage that would hold him. He was loud and proud and like nothing the crowd at Callbacks had ever seen before. Tall, lean and devastatingly handsome, some of the men and many of the women who frequented the establishment admired and lusted after him. They bought him drinks, gave him their phone numbers, hovered near just to be in his orbit. None of them had any idea that Elliott Gilbert even existed, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them.

Needless to say, Kurt's eyes widened and his jaw dropped when they walked in and saw the man they called Starchild - he overheard the name from someone in the crowd - clad in a long black leather trench coat, a white shirt with ruffles down the front, and black leather pants, his face made up, his hair dangerously spiky, holding court at the bar. He'd never seen anything remotely like him in his life - people who looked like _that_ simply didn't exist in the backwards cow town of Lima, Ohio. It was fascinating and intriguing and more than slightly terrifying. He wanted desperately to go up and talk to the man, but he had absolutely no idea as to what he could possibly say to him. Offer makeup tips? Inquire as to the details of his skin care regimen? Compliment him on his perfectly arranged three-day beard?

Instead, he turned to Rachel and shouted into her ear over the blaring music, "Do you see what I'm seeing?" He pointed to where Starchild was sipping on a drink someone had bought for him, leaning against the bar, surveying his night-time kingdom.

Rachel stood on her toes, straining to follow the line of Kurt's finger.

"You mean the guy who looks like a reject from a Kiss cover band?"

"Rachel! He is far more sophisticated and nuanced than those Neanderthals. Honestly, I'll never understand why Finn liked them so much. _They_ were leering gargoyles. _This_ man is clearly an _artiste._ "

Santana turned her head to see what mini-Streisand and Porcelain were going on about. Kurt was all breathless about something or other, and Rachel looked as though she had just eaten something that had gone horribly bad, her face all scrunched up in an epic expression of _what the hell?_ She scanned the line of people at the bar and found the object of their conversation lounging in the middle of a small throng, smiling as though he owned the place. And maybe he did, who knew? This _was_ New York City, after all.

"What's up with black leather Liberace over there?" she shouted to both of her friends, heedless of whoever else might hear her, because she was Santana and she was just that badass. "Is he ringing your bell, Ladyface?"

Kurt looked scandalized, his pale skin going at least a shade whiter.

"Santana, I would really prefer that you never, ever mention me and a bell in the same sentence again, especially in this context."

"Don't care. He's a tall drink of hair product. Nice coat, though. You should talk to him." She nudged him in the direction of the crowded bar. "Go. Maybe he's into tiny guys who like to tie their scarves in a bow around their necks."

"I'm not entirely sure that's a good idea, Santana. He looks vaguely sinister," Rachel said, nervously glancing at the man at the bar, then looking away quickly. "How do you know he hasn't got a collection of knives inside that coat?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "What do you think this is, an episode of _True Blood?_ News flash: vampires aren't a real thing, short stack."

"What could I possibly say to him? He's clearly out of my league." Kurt looked like a sad puppy who's just had his chew toy stolen by a larger, fiercer dog. "Wait - do I even _have_ a league? I don't think...I don't think I do. Oh my God, this is hopeless. No, no. Let's just find a table and sit down. Rachel, do you see your friend anywhere?"

"Kurt, you _do_ know you're asking the shortest person in this place if she can see over a crowd of people, right? For fuck's sake, Rachel - just pull out your phone and send him a text."

"Right." Rachel reached into her purse and brought out her iPhone. "Oh, he already texted me. _Oh!_ Oh, no," she said, peering at the screen. "He's not coming. Something about sustaining an injury in his stage-fighting class." She put the device back to sleep and shoved it back into her bag. "So much for that duet," she huffed.

"What a shame," Santana cackled. "I am _so_ disappointed."

Rachel smacked her on the arm in retaliation, sticking her tongue out, while Kurt continued to hyperventilate beside them. "Holy Sweet Mother of Streisand, he's gorgeous. I think...oh, God, I think he caught me looking at him! What do I do?"

"Breathe like a normal human? Jesus, you're probably making him uncomfortable. Keep staring, and he's likely to threaten you with a restraining order."

 _Clearly Santana's nap was not long enough,_ Rachel thought to herself, pushing through the crowd to try to get closer to the bar, practically dragging Kurt along with her. Santana was quick to follow, not wanting to be left behind in the roiling sea of collegiate New Yorkers. Callbacks attracted a diverse clientele from both NYADA and NYU, the two major schools in the area; the place looked like a casting call for the worst season of _The Real World_ ever.

"You know, if we'd stayed home I could be drinking _real_ drinks - you know, ones that actually contain alcohol - and I wouldn't have to be surrounded by people…" the ex-cheerleader mumbled, to no one in particular. She went ignored.

"You must be new here," Starchild's smooth as silk voice cut through the noise of the crowd and the music. Kurt tensed visibly at the sound, his shoulders bunching up around his neck. "I would remember someone this fashionable. Or have you been to Callbacks before, and somehow I missed you?"

Kurt stared up at him in awe; the man was at least five inches taller than he, and even better looking close-up. "I - um - no, no," he stammered, hating himself for it. He nervously smoothed nonexistent wrinkles down the front of his shirt with his hands as he spoke. "This would be the first time, actually. I - _we're -_ new to the city." He gestured to Rachel and Santana. Rachel gave him a small, uncertain smile, and Santana simply nodded.

" _Welcome_ , then." Starchild extended a hand in greeting - Rachel's eyes widened at all the rings that adorned his long fingers - as he leaned his angular frame into their space, and Kurt took it to shake. Before he could do so, the magnificent man in front of him pulled Kurt's hand to his lips and kissed it softly. "To the greatest city in the world."

Looking on, Santana was greatly amused, and more than a little surprised. She couldn't imagine what could have possibly brought Young Cryptkeeper over to their table, much less Kurt's hand to his lips, but the look of complete terror on her friend's face made the entire trip worth it. Bonus: if Kurt fell over, he'd end up in Rachel's lap. She was actively hoping he'd pass out, leaving Rachel all flustered as to what do with a man's face in her lap. The thought actually made her a little bit giddy inside.

"Thank you! Um, thank you very much, Mr...um…?" Kurt's voice trailed off as he wondered if he should be bold and refer to the man by the name he'd overheard on their way in. _Oh, be brave. Aren't you the guy who once put up the word "courage" in his locker?_ "Starchild?"

It might have been true, perhaps, that Starchild wouldn't necessarily be attracted to a skinny, pale faced kid from Outer Nowhere, U.S.A., but there was still enough of Elliott lurking around inside him that compelled him to admit that yes, the young man _was_ cute, in a Midwestern sort of way. He'd had enough of the jaded, seen-it-all, done-it-all New York types to last a lifetime; maybe it was time for him to consider being with someone completely unlike that. He found himself intrigued by the notion of looking at the city through the eyes of someone who had never seen it before.

He leaned in closer, so close that Kurt could smell his cologne, and he was still just barely able to hear the man's throaty whisper in his ear: "Can you keep a secret? My _real_ name is Elliott. Stick around, and I'll give you my number...if you tell me your name."

Rachel still looked nervous, leaning away as the strangely attired man leaned in, but she kept her hand on Kurt's arm, wanting to show her support without being any closer than she absolutely had to be. She turned panicked eyes helplessly over at Santana, who just shrugged as if to say _I don't know what's going on any more than you do._

"K-Kurt. Hummel...I mean, that's my name. Kurt Hummel. I'm a student at NYADA." He looked as though he was on the verge of hysteria, a comically wide grin stretching across his face. "These are my friends, Rachel and Santana."

Starchild nodded to each of the girls. "Charmed."

"Kurt - we should really sign up for stage time now. We don't want to go on too late," Rachel said with more than a little urgency, nudging her starstruck friend with a shoulder.

"Yeah - we really don't want to miss your _stunning_ duet," Santana purred, reveling in the look of discomfort on the little diva's face. She guessed she'd have to settle for that, since it didn't appear that Kurt was going to pass out after all. She turned her amused eyes to the enigmatic man who held Lady Hummel in thrall. " _Do_ we, Starchild?"

"So you're singers?" he asked, looking surprised. It was the first normal expression they'd seen on his face all night. "Do you all go to NYADA, or just Kurt?"

Rachel piped up, finally. "Yes, all of us. Santana is majoring in dance, while I'm a musical theater and vocal performance major, and Kurt is... _undecided."_

"Well, that's great." Starchild clapped his hands. "I can't wait to hear what you can do. I'm a singer too, if you hadn't already guessed. I perform in clubs all over the city."

"He said modestly," cracked Santana, raising her glass to him in mock tribute.

Kurt's head whipped around, his eyes wide with horror. "Santana!"

"She's a feisty one, isn't she?" Starchild laughed in delight, as though he'd never been insulted before and didn't know how to recognize it.

"That's one way to put it," answered Kurt, turning his attention back to him (but not before glaring daggers at the ex-cheerleader). "Sorry."

"No, no. It's all right. Listen, I have some friends waiting for me, but I am _definitely_ going to stick around to hear you and Rachel sing - so you two should go and put your names on the list."

Rachel stood, yanking Kurt up with her. "Yes! Yes, we should. Come on, Kurt." She tugged at his arm. "Let's go. Nice to meet you." She nodded at Starchild, then dragged Kurt away, not giving him a chance to say anything more.

Still looking amused, Starchild wandered off, laughing to himself, his head turning in the direction in which Rachel and Kurt had gone. He stood still for a moment. Always the observant one, Santana watched him watching the two friends, the small girl pushing her way through the crowd while her friend kept glancing back, desperately trying to catch his eye once again. Then he turned and disappeared, swallowed up by his coterie of admirers.

Santana stirred what was left of her drink, not bothered at all by being left alone for the moment. "Well, this night just got a _whole_ lot more interesting," she said to no one, her voice lost in the noise and the bustle of the crowded club.


	4. Conversations with the Past and Present

**Chapter 4: Conversations with the Past and Present**

Carmen Tibideaux sat at the imposing mahogany desk in her office, surrounded by files and papers regarding the students that would be performing in the Freshman Showcase. It was nearly the end of the day, and she was grateful for it. Her neck was coiled with tension, and her feet felt sore in her shoes, which were more classy than comfortable. It had been one hell of a day, to say the least. She'd been putting out fires left and right, even more so than usual, but she'd had enough of it - at least for the time being.

Finishing off a sip of her still steaming hot cup of green tea, she pressed the button on her intercom, trusting that Cassandra July was also sitting at her desk now, going through papers, and not in her studio dancing. "Ms. July, I need to see you in my office, please," she requested formally, on the off-chance that anyone else was around. Face to face, she and Cassie were generally more casual with each other. They were long-time friends, and there was no need for formalities between the two of them behind closed doors. Although most, if not all, of the faculty knew about their friendship, it was up to Carmen, in her position as Dean, to keep up appearances. Particularly in front of the students, who could appear out of nowhere at any time.

It wasn't long before she received her answer, the intercom light blinking red. "Yes, Ms. Tibideaux. I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you."

To everyone else, Carmen Tibideaux was a woman of few words, one who spoke professionally, confidently, and with a more than slight air of superiority. Although she knew that Cassandra looked up to her as a mentor, Carmen was never the least bit condescending towards her. Cassandra got enough of that from everyone else, Carmen knew, and the poor woman didn't need it from her, too.

Within about ten minutes, there was a knock on Carmen's front door.

"You may enter," she allowed, in case it was her secretary. It wasn't, though, it was Cassandra who walked through the door and shut it behind her, looking drained. "Cassie," Carmen greeted her, standing to give her a hug. "I feel like we haven't talked in _ages_. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Cassandra returned the hug, embracing her friend tightly, then lowered herself into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the woman's desk. "I'm okay," she said. "Busy with students. Tired. You look about the same," she commented, staring the older woman up and down. She smirked at the look on Carmen's face, knowing she was the only person in the entire academy who'd be able to say something like that and not get into trouble for it. "Just saying.". Carmen chuckled and pressed her lips together.

"Cassie, you look like shit," she bluntly replied. When Cassie opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, Carmen shrugged knowingly, arching an eyebrow. " _Just saying_." Cassandra knew she would be wrong to argue.

"I don't doubt it. To you, anyway. At least my students are still terrified of me." Cassandra sat back in her chair, crossing her toned legs, smiling in satisfaction.

"You do seem to have that effect on people," Carmen studied the younger woman's face, not unsympathetically. It was quite obvious that she still hadn't quit drinking, as she'd promised to do at the end of the last school year, but Carmen was the only one in the place who would have noticed.

"Mmmm," Cassandra could see straight through the pity in Carmen's eyes. She understood why it was there, but she hated it just the same. "So I've been told."

Carmen had picked up a pen to check a few students off of her list, but she set it down, giving Cassandra her full focus. The blonde dancer's eyes were red, and her concealer was wearing off from the day's work, the dark circles underneath starting to show. She was drunk and hadn't been sleeping well, that much was obvious.

"Cassandra. What's wrong with you?" Carmen asked point blank. Sometimes Cassandra was open enough around her to answer, and sometimes it had to be pried out of her with industrial strength tools. Her response would let Carmen know what kind of day it was.

"I'm - I'm not sure what you mean." Cassie's tone was dull, and Carmen had her answer. Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, and her lips became a tight, thin line.

"Well for one, you seem to have had enough alcohol today to stock a small bar. I can see it in your face, hear it in your voice."

"That's not fair. You know I'm trying to quit-"

"It's _plenty_ fair, and you are doing no such thing." Carmen cut her off, waving a hand to dismiss her defense. " _Trying,"_ she scoffed, rubbing at her temples. " _Cassie_. What can I do to help? Hmm?" When Cass took too long to respond, she continued. "Tell me, what do you need? I know this job can't be enough for you. You need... _something."_

Cassie shrugged, looking away from her friend and boss, not knowing which one was speaking to her now. "I don't need anything from you, Carmen. I've told you, this job is more than enough. You know how grateful I am -"

"This is about more than just the job, Cassandra Vivian July, and you know it."

 _You got the full name, Cass. Time to throw in the towel._

Carmen leaned forward to emphasize what she was about to say. "You have got to stop punishing yourself for the things you did when you were younger, Cassie. It's eating you alive. You messed up, you made a mistake. You're human. That's why I believe in -"

"Second chances. I know, I know," Cassie rolled her eyes. "You know I don't believe in those."

"Why not?" Carmen pressed the issue, knowing that her friend couldn't continue like this for much longer. "Why is it so hard for you to forgive yourself?"

"Why should I? No one else has. Except for you. The real world doesn't believe in second chances, Carmen - or the people in theatre would be more forgiving."

There was a beat of silence before Carmen answered, slowly and carefully. "Do you honestly believe, if that were true, I would give them to my students? Or to you? It's my job to prepare young people to face the real world, Cassie, in case you've forgotten. You have a second chance, teaching here. You know as well as I do that I'm not the only person in the world who still believes in your talent."

Cassandra's cheeks reddened slightly at that. Suddenly, her fingernails were much more interesting than Carmen's eyes. "I'm not so sure about that."

"These days you aren't so sure about anything," Carmen snapped. She had had just about enough of this "woe-is-me" act from her. "Stop throwing yourself a pity party and get your ass back in the game. This isn't the Cassandra July I know and love. I know you miss the stage, and you miss your friends. But if they're your real friends, they'll answer you back. And you could still be cast in a new show, if you would only get out there and try."

"Like anybody would cast me," Cassie shot back. "And after ten years, I hardly think I'm getting my friends back."

Carmen shrugged, unmoved. "Maybe you should make new ones, then."

Cassie knew she wasn't going to win this. No one ever went up against Carmen and won. She stood up, stretching her legs, and walked around to the other side of the desk where Carmen sat. Leaning down, she kissed Carmen's cheek in thanks.

"You're the only friend I need, Carmen," she said, before heading back towards the older woman's office door. "Thank you for everything. Don't stay up here much longer, okay? You're going to work yourself to death."

She left the office without another word. Carmen listened to the sound of her stiletto heels clicking down the hall as she stalked off, disappearing into the night. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, sighing wearily. There was only so much she could do.

Quinn was beside herself. She'd just gotten her first test back, and had been very pleasantly surprised to see an "A" at the top of the paper. Her English Lit professor was a very stern, old school sort of guy, the kind of professor she'd seen in old movies with a tweed jacket that sported patches at the elbows and a pipe surgically attached to his mouth. She'd been intimidated by him in a way that Sue Sylvester could only dream of intimidating a student. Clearly, he was brilliant, an intellectual giant; Quinn was simply in awe of the man. His command of language, and of the class, was extraordinary. So she had thought there was no way anything she said in class or wrote on a test paper could possibly impress him.

Yet there they were, the notes in red pen, filling the margins with praise. Quinn thought she was hallucinating when she saw them, brought on by too much coffee and too little sleep. She couldn't wait to tell Rachel about it. So even though she still had a mountain of other work to do, she fired up her laptop and clicked the Skype icon, hoping that Rachel was home and available to talk.

She bit her lip, then her fingernails, waiting for Rachel to answer. When the screen brightened, the little diva's face wore a look of surprise mixed with delight.

"Quinn! I wasn't expecting you to call, but I'm so happy you did! I have so much to tell you -"

"I got an 'A' on my first test."

Rachel blinked, her train of thought completely derailed. It took a moment for her brain to reset. "Wait...what?"

"I got an 'A' on my first test!" Quinn repeated, much louder than the first time. "That English Lit test I was so worried about - remember? With the professor that had me so spooked?"

The memory returned, rising in Rachel's mind like a mist, and her eyes lit up with pride and happiness. "Really?!" she exclaimed, one hand flying up to her mouth. "Oh my God, Quinn! That's _amazing!_ I'm so happy for you!"

Quinn laughed at the sight of her girlfriend jumping up and down like a small child who's just been told that yes, she can get a pony for her birthday.

"Rachel! Rachel, calm down," she called, straining to be heard over Rachel's wild shrieks of delight. "Listen, listen. He actually wrote notes on my paper, with words like 'astute' and 'insightful' and 'perspicacious.' On MY paper! Can you believe it? Because, seriously, I can't."

"I can, and I do. I've always said that you are so much more than just an incredibly pretty face, Quinn Fabray. When are you going to believe it too?"

"Ask me again after my next test in that class."

"Which will produce the exact same outcome, no doubt."

"I wish you were one of my professors. Most of them scare me to death."

Rachel laughed at the idea of the Quinn Fabray she knew at one time being intimidated by anyone. "If I were your professor, it would be a scandal. I would require you to love me in order to pass. The papers wouldn't be able to get enough of the story. _The Diva Seductress,_ they'd call me, or something similarly tawdry."

"You're insane, Rachel. Do you know that?"

"Insanely in love with you."

Quinn blushed prettily. She still wasn't used to hearing those words from Rachel, despite the fact that she'd longed to hear them for years. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

"Nope - just you. Oh, Quinn. I'm so proud of you!"

"All right, all right, enough about me. What about you? You said you had a lot to tell me - I assume it's all about your outing to that karaoke place? What's the name of it again?"

"Callbacks. And yes, you are correct in your assumption. How very _astute_ and _perspicacious_ of you!" Rachel said wryly, making Quinn cover her face with her palm, groaning. "Said the proud girlfriend."

"Come on, Rachel. Please. I want to hear about _you_ now."

Santana, walking past the curtain, couldn't help but overhear. Of course Q would want to hear Rachel talk about her favorite subject: _herself._ Well, screw that. Quinn might be Rachel's girlfriend, but she was also Santana's BFF, so maybe it was about time that she got to talk with the former Head Cheerio too. Without knocking on the doorframe, she pushed the curtain aside, strode into Rachel's bedroom and plopped herself down on the bed.

"Hey, Q! What's up?" she said cheerily, waving at the screen while pointedly ignoring Rachel's glare. "How's Yale treating you?"

"Santana!" Quinn smiled widely at seeing her best friend, waving back. "I've been meaning to text you, but school's kept me so busy - I'm really sorry. I know that's no excuse. How are you? Rachel was about to tell me about your big adventure last night."

"Yeah, I suppose you could say we had an interesting time. This one" - she pointed to Rachel - "was probably about to tell you only about what _she_ did, but I'mma tell you the _whole_ story, as only Auntie Tana can."

"Santana, be nice. I'm sure Rachel wasn't going to leave anything out."

"I most certainly would not have done anything like that. Thank you for defending my honor, though. It was very sweet of you." She glared at her roommate again, but the other girl simply held up a hand as if to say _whatever._ "Now, as for Callbacks. We -"

"Are you talking to Quinn again?"

Kurt's head appeared in the doorway, and both girls groaned while Quinn laughed at the perturbed looks on their faces. It reminded her of the days they'd spent together, the hours of glee club rehearsals and practices at one person or another's house.

"Hi, Kurt!" Quinn's voice shouted from the speakers of Rachel's laptop. "Why don't you come in and join us?"

"Yes, why _don't_ you, Hummel? Now we can regale Q with three different versions of the same story, like she's got nothing better to do than listen to us jabber away all night."

Rachel bristled. "Don't be rude, Santana."

"Not being rude, short stack. Just keeping it real, like I always do."

Kurt seated himself beside Santana, keeping a safe distance between them as best he could, not wanting to risk injury should the girl's famous temper suddenly explode.

"Well," Quinn laughed lightly at her friends' usual banter. She missed being around it every day, as odd as that sounded. In a way, it was a comfort to her. "Who wants to start?"

"I will!" Rachel raised her hand as if she were vying to be called on in class, wanting to get a word in before Santana could interrupt her. "Since this was _my_ conversation after all," she said, sounding bitter, but the comment went ignored. She took a deep breath and Quinn prepared herself for the barrage of words that were likely to flow off Rachel's tongue. with no break to breathe. This was something she was very used to, and while others claimed to find it annoying, she'd always thought it was adorable. "So we got there and Kurt fell head over heels for this gothically-dressed wannabe Gaga-"

"Hey now," Kurt held a hand up, his face reddening slightly. "First of all, he is _not_ a Gaga wannabe, he has his own unique sense of style-"

Santana shook her head in disbelief. "Unique is one word for it."

"I happen to find it extraordinary," Kurt glared daggers at her.

"You'd find anything extraordinary if it wore leather pants and kissed you the way he did," Santana snapped back.

"Listen, Satan -"

Quinn held up her hands through the screen of Rachel's laptop. "Whoa, whoa - hang on! I'm confused. You're jumping all over the place. One person talk at a time, please. Now, Kurt - you were kissed?"

Kurt gazed down at his hands, looking suddenly embarrassed. "I - um...yeah, I was, but I mean, I'm sure he does that to everyone. It really wasn't that big of a deal…"

"I don't think so," Rachel turned to look at him, her voice soft and sincere. "He seemed genuine. I would say that he was every bit as starstruck by you as you were by him."

Santana pulled her long black hair up into a high bun on top of her head. "Maybe that's why they call him Starchild," she thought out loud. There was a beat of silence as the group considered this before Kurt continued. He knew Quinn was busy and didn't want to take up all of their time with her. Besides, they all had weekend assignments to work on, and they needed to go to the laundromat.

"So, anyway. Long story short: I met a guy, he was amazing, he gave me his number. We're supposed to have coffee sometime this week," Kurt concluded modestly.

Quinn smiled, her happiness infectious to all who looked at her. "That's great, Kurt. I'm so happy for you! You needed this."

"It was much more than just some soft little kiss," Santana piped up. "You're not giving it enough credit. That boy dipped you like you were doing a tango and made sure the whole club could see."

"New York sounds fascinating," Quinn looked down for a moment to move her homework off of her lap, replacing it with her laptop so that she could give her friends more attention. "Much more daring than quiet, bucolic Connecticut."

Rachel beamed. "It has its moments. Like when Kurt and I stunned the crowd with our rendition of _Popular_. Apparently, it goes over well with crowds even outside of Ohio! Oh, Quinn, you should have seen it. We were in a club _full_ of performance students and they _still_ loved it."

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "That's really impressive," she admitted. "But I'm not surprised. You three were always the best performers in glee. The rest of us - well, except for Mike and Brittany - might as well have just stood and swayed in the background."

"I wouldn't say that," Kurt demurred. "Tina was very good, and Finn had his moments. So did Puck, every once in a great while. And _you_ , Miss Fabray, were always radiant whenever you got an opportunity to shine." He pointed at the screen, relishing the blush that bloomed on Quinn's cheeks. "Don't even try to deny it."

Rachel nodded vigorously. "I agree completely. Your version of _(I've Had) The Time of My Life_ with Sam was one of the highlights of our competitive career."

"They're right, Q. You were right up there with the best of us," agreed Santana. "How did _you_ end up being the most modest member of the New Directions, anyway?"

"By singing and dancing with you guys," Quinn said earnestly. "Seriously, when I joined the club, I was just a cheerleader who could sing a little bit. You all made me better, but more importantly, you made me humble. When I admitted to myself that I wasn't as talented as the rest of you, it became easier for me to accept other things." Her eyes focused on Rachel meaningfully. "A _lot_ of other things."

"Yeah, not so interested in that."

" _Santana!"_

Unfazed, the former _enfant terrible_ of the Cheerios and the New Directions continued on as if she hadn't just been admonished by three of her closest friends. "Now, what happened to _me_ at Callbacks, you're probably wondering? So glad you asked."

"She _didn't,"_ Kurt supplied helpfully. "But please, go ahead. You didn't say much about it when we got home."

"Well, you know how it is. Girls see the hotness, and they can't stop themselves. I had a bunch of 'em stop by our table while you and Elphaba there were on stage doing your thing, made some small talk, got all their digits. That's how Auntie Tana rolls."

"I didn't see you dance with anyone, though," Rachel mused. "That's unusual. Did you see her dance with anybody, Kurt?"

"Like he could see anything through the stars in his eyes. But yes, hobbit, for once you're right. I didn't dance with anyone. Dancing all the time for Professor July has left my feet a little too tender for recreational bump and grind, I'm afraid - at least right now. Soon enough, you'll see me back out on the floor embarrassing you all."

Quinn laughed heartily. "Oh, God, how I've missed you guys. But that reminds me - what's the story with this Cassandra July? I've been meaning to Google her ever since Rachel described her as a cross between Bebe Neuwirth and Genghis Khan."

Santana turned to Rachel, blinking. "Good one, Rachel. That was... _almost_ funny. But please, leave the insults to those of us who don't hurt themselves when they think of them." She turned her attention back to the screen, ignoring Rachel's look of irritation. "Yeah, Cassandra July's classes are no picnic. Not gonna lie - she makes Coach Sue look like Mary Poppins. But the difference between them is that Professor July is actually _good_ at what she does."

"Good at _teaching_ , maybe," Kurt interjected. "But that's all she's been able to do for the last ten years, after crashing and burning off the Broadway stage in _spectacular_ fashion."

"Look up 'Cassandra July incident' on YouTube," Rachel said. "That will tell you everything you were afraid to know, but had to ask anyway. Better yet, type in 'Biggest Trainwreck in Broadway History'."

No one noticed Santana's wince amid the laughter that followed. Nor did they know that she had already looked up that very thing, and been troubled - haunted, even - by it ever since. The bitterness in the woman's eyes, the sad, broken thing she'd heard in her voice when they'd spoken privately after class the other day...suddenly it all made sense. It had preoccupied her so much that she'd barely been able to make small talk with the girls at Callbacks. How could she focus on these shallow, insipid girls when there was a real woman out there who was clearly drowning in her own life? It gnawed at her thoughts, intruded on her dreams. She wanted to hear Ms. July's story from her own lips, not from a smug narrator on a YouTube video. Somehow, it seemed important to her, though she couldn't have explained why.

She rose suddenly, jostling Kurt so much that he fell back onto Rachel's small army of pillows. "Well, this has been fun," she said, pulling down the hem of her short, tight blue dress. "But I've got other stuff do. It was great seeing and talking with you, Q. I'll be waiting for that text you promised me. Don't make me wait too long."

"Or you'll go all Lima Heights on my perfect white ass?"

"I never said it was _perfect,"_ Santana corrected. "But it _was_ pretty good." She paused for a beat, relishing the stunned silence. "And if Rachel's not lying, it still is."

And as she strutted out of Rachel's bedroom, she raised her arms in triumph as three voices shouted her name in unison once again.

. . .

Elsewhere in the city, Holly Holliday pulled her long, straight blonde hair into a sleek ponytail high on her head and stripped out of her work clothes to change into something more comfortable. Finally, her long day of teaching was over and she could relax in her own element. She poured herself a large glass of merlot, pulled on a pair of grey drawstring sweatpants and a black tank top, and grabbed her favorite blanket. Once she'd plopped down in a large, cozy chair, she grabbed her laptop and opened it, scrolling through her newsfeed to see what she'd missed that day.

She loved teaching, but it grew tiring. She'd gone to school for theatre and, for a time, had continued to audition, but got beaten out too often by younger, fresher talent. Now she taught drama at a school in Chelsea, where her apartment was. Her phone buzzed next to her and she stopped in mid-scroll.

The text she received was from her friend Shelby, who had finally gotten off work herself and had a second to talk.

 **Hey, you. Today was exhausting. Why did you ever tell me that "Broadway Daycare" was a good idea? I always wanted to be** _ **on**_ **Broadway, not be the performers' babysitter.**

Holly laughed to herself, responding, _Not sure, honey bunch. You got tired of Broadway, remember? I don't blame you. I'd get tired too if I played Maria 18 damn times…_

She continued scrolling through her news feed and saw that Cassandra July was trending. She sighed, remembering what time of year it was. "Do you really want to click that link, Holliday?" she asked herself, her hand hovering over the mouse. She clicked. "Yes. You do."

 **Oh, yes. How could I forget? The dumbest decision I ever made. Leaving Broadway. Ugh.**

 _Don't feel too sorry for yourself. At least you aren't Crazy Cassie July._

 **Oh, so you saw that she's trending?**

 _Yeah._

 _I feel bad, Shelbs. This video is brutal._

There was a gap between responses and Holly cringed as the video unfolded, Cassie's yells echoing throughout the theatre she was in.

 **She did it to herself, Hol. Isn't karma a bitch?**

Holly clicked off the offensive link, shuddering. With a sigh, she opened up another folder on her desktop and started looking through the pictures it contained. She, Cassie, and Shelby had once been inseparable. She missed that, really. Shelby was still an amazing friend, but she was always so busy with work and everything else she had going on in her life. Holly and Cassie had always been closer.

 **Face it, Hol. She drank herself into oblivion and knocked down everyone around her. She's toxic. Bad news.**

 _That was a long time ago,_ Holly defended her old friend. Someone had to. _I'm sure becoming known as Crazy July changed her a bit…_

She came across an old video of the three of them. With a small, nostalgic smile, she clicked on it. Cass was singing and dancing around in Holly's old t shirt and a pair of shorts, using a hairbrush as a microphone. She wasn't drunk, just her younger, fun-loving self. Holly had been filming and flipped the camera to show them both when Cass kissed her cheek adoringly and Shelby joined in, kissing her other cheek. It was an innocent video, one that captured the way things used to be.

 **People don't change, Hol. They only manipulate other people into thinking that they do. Go ahead and reach out to her if you want. But don't say I didn't warn you when things don't go the way you think they will. I have to go, but I love you. Be careful!**

Holly nodded, pressing her lips together. She understood where Shelby was coming from. At the end, Cassandra had made it all about her. _Her_ audition, _her_ graduation, _her_ new show. As if all three of them weren't graduating and auditioning for exciting things. As if Shelby hadn't won the coveted leading role in _West Side Story_.

And then Cassie had beaten Holly out for the role in _Damn Yankees._ Cassie always beat her out. Ironically, that was the same role that had suddenly, spectacularly, ruined her career. One night out of hundreds. One terrible, horrible moment, captured forever on video and replayed endlessly all over the Internet for a decade. They'd both, she and Shelby, tried to console her, tried to help, but she'd pushed them away, preferring the comfort of a bottle to the comfort of her friends. She'd pushed them away so thoroughly that neither of them had spoken to Cassie in a decade.

"It's been 10 years," Holly thought aloud. "Maybe it's time. It can't hurt to just see how she's doing, can it? Maybe Shelbs is right, but maybe she isn't. Oh, hell - if I don't at least try, I'll always wonder what if…"

Taking a deep breath, she opened up a new email and typed something up before she could stop or second guess herself. She hit _send_ as soon as she finished typing, not giving herself the chance to overthink it and back out.

She downed more of her merlot and sat back in her chair, her thoughts swirling like the wine in her glass. "Guess I'll just wait and see."


	5. Nodding to the Future

**Chapter 5: Nodding to the Future**

One of the reasons he had become Starchild, Elliott thought as he looked out the window of his small but neat apartment, was to give his impulses free rein. After feeling thoroughly shackled growing up, he wanted to live an adult life as free of inhibition as possible. Yet he'd found he couldn't do it as plain old Elliott Gilbert, scion of the New Jersey suburbs - so out Starchild had come, the embodiment of all his secret wishes and desires. The alter ego he'd created had led him places he'd never dreamed of going, to do things he'd never even imagined. It had been one wild ride after another, and he couldn't say that he regretted much of anything, even the things that hadn't quite worked out the way he'd hoped.

So why, then, had he kissed that cute, but otherwise incredibly ordinary boy at Callbacks? Why had he felt so different when he did it, different from the way he'd felt every other time he'd kissed someone, not just there, but anywhere? Kurt Hummel was _him_ , he suspected, when he'd been that age: wide-eyed, naive and optimistic, just barely out of 'too scared to tell anybody he was gay' territory. It was all very familiar terrain, he mused; but then he thought back to when he'd been trying to navigate his way through it, all alone, with no one around to guide him, to ease him into what could be a difficult path to travel. Wouldn't he have loved for someone to mentor him, to help him to avoid the many pitfalls of being young and gay in the big, bad Apple? Wouldn't that have made things so much easier?

The answer to that was 'yes,' of course. Maybe _that_ was why he'd done it, why he'd singled out Kurt from all the other eager and available young men at Callbacks. Maybe he had sensed a kindred spirit in the NYADA student, another soul wanting to take flight, not knowing how to use its wings to catch the wind and soar. Elliott smiled at the metaphor. Yes, that was it - or was there more? The more he thought about it, the more he thought there was something special about Kurt, something he couldn't quite define just yet. It was vague, nebulous, a thing he'd felt more than seen, somehow. But he was a creature of instinct, and his instincts had rarely failed him. He looked at his phone, willing it to ring, hoping that when it did, Kurt would be at the other end of the line. The boy would need time, he knew, and he'd give it to him. Still, if they were to cross paths again, perhaps that would shorten the amount of time he'd need. His smile broadened, and the first inklings of a plan began to form in his mind.

He pulled up the map application on his phone and began to plot the distance between his apartment and the NYADA campus. Perhaps it was time for a special Starchild performance…

. . .

" _Up,_ 2-3-4 and 5-6-7-8, 2-2 3-4 and 5-6-7-8….okay, okay, okay, _stop_ ," Cassandra waved her hands, annoyed, at her class and her TA cut the music. "You guys just aren't getting it. What is so complicated about this? You should be able to do this routine in your sleep."

When no one responded, she let out a sigh. "I didn't ask just to be stared at. _Someone,_ for the love of God, answer me."

Santana looked down at her slipper-clad feet, her hands on her hips, and let out a breath. Her chest was pounding from the workout. "Miss July, I think we're just overthinking it," she suggested. Cassandra raised an amused eyebrow. "I'm sure we can get it down if we take five to collect ourselves and understand that it's not as hard as it looks."

Cassandra nodded in thought. It wasn't a bad idea, but she couldn't have her class thinking she took orders from students. "Perhaps. But don't think that's just an excuse to take a break. You mess up a move on Broadway? The show isn't going to stop just because you faltered. Got it?" The class nodded. She rolled her eyes, fanning them away. "Take five. Get a drink, stretch out."

Her students scattered around the studio, and Santana smiled softly to herself as she retreated to her corner as instructed, thinking that maybe she was starting to get to the woman, somehow.

While her students took their break, Cass sauntered over to the table by the mirror, where she kept her phone and her water bottle. She took a sip of water and unlocked her phone to check her email. She was waiting for a confirmation about the Freshman Showcase from Madam Tibideaux, but instead she saw a name in her inbox she'd never expected to see again.

 _Well, I'll be goddamned. Holly Holliday._ Cass kept herself from gasping, not wanting to draw attention from her students. _It must have been an accident. She doesn't want to talk to me._ The subject line read, "Hey, you," and Cassie's mind worked a mile a minute. _What could have brought this on, after all this time?_

With a shaky hand, she tapped the screen to open the email and read.

 **Hey, July. Long time no talk, I know.**

 **I've missed you, Cassie. I miss my best friend. I wish I had something else to say, but that's the extent of it. I wonder everyday what's become of you, and how you're doing. I saw you trending tonight online, and I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry Shelby and I didn't try harder to stick around when you pushed us away. And although she's in sore spirits, I still want to be a part of your life, if that's possible. I worry about you, Cassie. Could we just...get coffee sometime?**

 **If you don't want to see me, I get it. I won't bother you. Just thought I would extend the invitation. It would be nice to see you again.**

 **Love always, Holly**

 _Love always?_ Cassandra silently scoffed. _Always? Does she know the meaning of the word? Stop, Cass._ She scolded herself immediately. _You pushed them away, remember? She's trying to reach out again. Which is apparently more than Shelby's doing. Tell her yes. What's the worst that can happen?_

She checked the clock and saw that her students' time was up. She locked her phone, vowing to answer Holly back once the class was over, and pounded her cane on the floor.

"All right, people, let's get a move on. Go!" she barked.

 _You're going to be in for one hell of a wake-up call if she's just doing this to get back at you, July. Don't get your hopes up until you see what you're dealing with._

 _..._

Quinn sat her desk, blew a lock of blonde hair away from her eyes, her bottom lip angled upwards. Finally her homework was done, and she'd answered what seemed like an endless number of emails: from her mother, from Mercedes, from Kurt, from Tina, from Artie, from Brittany, from Sam...even Finn and Mike had sent her short but pleasant notes wishing her the best of luck in her adventures at Yale. More surprising - and heartwarming - were the missives she'd received from Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury; she hadn't expected that. Without them, she knew, she wouldn't be where she was right now. It had taken so much effort from so many people to help her to become the person she'd always wanted to be, and she didn't mind that each email served as a reminder of that fact.

But her success was due to the tireless, unflagging, unceasing efforts of one person above all others: Rachel. It was like the tiny girl with the huge heart had made it her mission in life to see Quinn rise to the position of love and respect that she'd achieved by the time they'd all graduated, and the words to express her gratitude didn't exist. Somehow, some way, Rachel had earned first her respect, then her friendship, and then ultimately her love - patiently, tenaciously, with a sincerity so genuine and earnest that it made her heart ache to think about it, even now. Sure, they'd had their bumps along the way, with the bruises to prove it - Rachel was far from faultless (as was she), but even her faults had become endearing, if not downright lovable.

That was why, with her roommate thankfully gone for the night at some stupid party elsewhere on campus, Quinn sat with her diary open before her and a pen in her hand, poised to enter her deepest, most secret thoughts. She'd never been one to open up and unburden herself to others; sometimes it was difficult for her to do that even with Rachel. Her childhood and early adolescence had been spent creating masks and walls, clever fictions to hide who she really was from others, even from herself. But alone with her diary, she could express herself more freely than she could even when she'd bared her soul in song to the glee club in the choir room at McKinley. Her thoughts had always flowed best through the medium of pen and paper, channeled through ink to stare back up at her in black (or blue) and white.

She chewed on the upper end of the pen for a moment, as she tended to do when she collected her thoughts before writing them down, then let out a satisfied sigh as she began:

 _Dear Diary: It's been a stressful day. But aren't they all, here at Yale, the pinnacle of American academia? I still can't even believe I'm here, or that I'm somehow managing to actually keep up with the insane workload. Sometimes I can't even think. Sometimes I just break down and cry, thinking of everything I have to do, knowing how little time I have to do it all. But then I think of one person, the person for whom I'm putting myself through all of this._

 _Rachel._

 _I love Rachel so much it scares me sometimes, Diary. I know I've said this before, but every time I do, I just realize it more and more. I can't imagine who I would be, or where, if not for her. She saved me - from my father, from becoming my sister, from being frozen in time as the mean girl I was when we met, when I first joined the glee club. Every time I think I'm through, I think of her, and she saves me again. I know that some might consider this to be a little crazy, Diary, but it's true: she's my forever, my home and my heart, and when we're both ready for it, I'm going to buy a ring and ask Rachel to marry me._

 _And that's why I'm doing this. Not because it was my lifelong dream to go to Yale, as Rachel's dream was to go to NYADA - but because I've seen my future, and I know it's with her. So I need to graduate from here and get a good job so that I can provide for us if things ever get tough for Rachel as a singer-slash-actress. I know she's incredibly talented, but sometimes talent doesn't get you as far as it should. Sometimes it's about looks, or about your personality behind the scenes. I mean, of course I think Rachel is beautiful, but some people might think that her nose is too big, or that she's too short; others might think she's too assertive, too opinionated, that she doesn't 'go along to get along.' These are things we'll learn in time, but maybe I'm being too negative. Maybe Rachel's star will burn so brightly that it will blind those people to her nose, her height, her opinions. Maybe all they'll be able to see is her talent, how truly special she is._

 _I hope so. She deserves that, and more._

 _But in the meantime, I'm going to do everything I can to be able to support and encourage her, whatever happens. You can count on that, Diary. It's more than a promise - it's a sacred and solemn vow._

 _..._

Rachel laughed as Kurt's story reached its conclusion, taking a bite of her veggie burger and dipping a homemade french fry in a small island of ketchup on her plate, against her better judgment; she'd heard Crazy July call a student "Muffin Top" the other day, and since then she'd tried desperately not to be the next person to earn that undesirable nickname.

"It's beyond me how some of these people even got into NYADA," Kurt continued, taking a drink of his lemonade. "Half of them are idiots."

"Some things never change," Rachel agreed, and Kurt knew she was referring to certain classmates they'd known back in Lima. She flipped the subject easily. "One thing that did change is your taste in guys. Can we _please_ talk about Starchild now?"

Kurt blushed heavily, wishing Rachel's natural speaking voice wasn't so loud. They were sitting down to lunch at a diner called Spotlight, just down the street from Callbacks. He wasn't sure it was exactly Elliott's scene, but he worried it was possible that people around them knew his stage name.

"I'm not sure what there is to talk about," Kurt took a large bite of his chicken wrap, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "I mean, we kissed and then went our separate ways, to quote one of Mr. Schue's favorite songs."

"Nope, unacceptable. You can't convince me that's all there was to it. He was into you!" Rachel argued, pressing the topic.

"Rachel, he's probably into every available guy in the city," Kurt waved her off. "I'm nothing special, and as I've said before, he's way out of my league."

Rachel shook her head, finishing her fries. "He's only out of your league because you're scared. But we aren't in Ohio anymore, Kurt - it's okay to take risks! It's okay to just go for it and in this case, I think you should. If it was nothing, as you say it is, he wouldn't have given you his number."

Kurt pondered this, drinking more lemonade to stall his best friend's relentless insistence. In truth, he had no idea how any of it had happened; he couldn't even guess at Starchild's motivation for even approaching him, much less dipping and then kissing him on the stage, right in front of everyone. Whatever had possessed him, though, Kurt was glad for it. Not that he expected a repeat of the incident ever to occur. He couldn't possibly be _that_ lucky twice.

"Honestly, Rachel - he was probably drunk or high, or possibly on a dare. I mean, look at me, and then look at him. What would someone so dashing and debonair want with me?"

"I'm no expert, but I saw no evidence of intoxication in the way he marched right up onto the stage, spun you around, dipped you, and then introduced his lips to yours," Rachel said, frowning at the glum expression on her friend's face. "And, dare I say, his tongue."

Kurt slammed his hands over his ears, his eyes wide in scandalized shock.

"I did _not_ just hear you say that, Rachel Berry. La la la la - I refuse to listen to any more of this."

Laughing at Kurt's silliness, Rachel gently pried the boy's hands away from his ears. It was about time that someone spoke straight up to him (so to speak), and since Santana happened to be in class at the moment, it fell to her to try and talk some sense into him.

"All I'm saying is, you need to give yourself more credit. And if this guy is someone with whom you could possibly have a relationship, don't let go of that just because you're scared. If he wasn't interested, at least a little bit, he wouldn't have introduced himself at all."

"You're right, you're right." Kurt was all out of lemonade to stall with. "Maybe I'll give him a call later tonight. Or tomorrow morning or...something."

It was a start. Rachel gave him her famous megawatt grin. "Yes!" she exclaimed.

"Shh!" Kurt looked around the diner, hoping no one had noticed. "I can't take you anywhere." He wiped his mouth with his napkin, relieved that Rachel had her victory smile on; it meant that she would stop talking for a few minutes while she basked in the glow of having won the conversational point. "Now that we've sorted all that out, I have a question for you. You are aware that your mother is living in this very city, yes? Do you have any plans to see her?"

Rachel swallowed the last bite of her burger, surprised at the sudden change in discussion. "Um. I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Kurt…"

"Why not?" Kurt asked, as the waiter refilled his cup and asked about dessert. They ordered some fresh fruit after Rachel turned down the suggested ice cream. "I thought when she left Lima you two were on good terms?"

Rachel pressed her lips together, folding and refolding her napkin. " _Good_ is a strong word. I mean, I don't hate her anymore. We're Facebook friends."

"Rachel…" Kurt reached his hand across the table for his best friend to take. "This is your chance. The chance you've always wanted, to have a _real_ relationship with her."

The girl shook her head. She'd let herself think that last time, and it had been toxic. "I'm not getting my hopes up again, Kurt. She has her life and I have mine, and...maybe it's best that way."

 _This is going to be harder than I thought._ Kurt sighed, taking a bite of the fresh pineapple the waiter had just set down in front of him. They nodded their thanks at him, and as he departed, Kurt continued.

"Are you in contact with her? Besides just being Facebook friends, I mean?" he inquired, hoping she would rise to the bait.

Rachel shook her head. "Not really," she admitted. "All I know is she's running a Broadway Daycare, something like that."

"That's a good conversation starter," Kurt singsonged. "You guys live in the same place now. Just think - you could be real friends, instead of just online friends."

With a small smile of mixed hope and uncertainty, Rachel bit her cheek. "Fine. I'll think about it - _if_ you call Starchild. Deal?"

Kurt's face lit up. "Deal."

They chatted amiably about less stressful topics as they tucked into their fresh fruit cups in earnest, until Rachel stopped with her fork in mid-flight. Kurt wondered for a moment if she was having a small stroke, and then she blinked while a slow smile crept across her face. It was the kind of smile that made Kurt wary. The kind of smile that said she was thinking about something she thought was brilliant, and he would think was insane.

"We should work here," she said.

Kurt's mouth dropped open. He was glad there was no fruit in it at the moment, because it would surely have fallen to the table, creating a most embarrassing scene. Maybe she really had just suffered the tiniest of strokes, or maybe the bump she took to the head when Santana had thrown a ballet shoe at her the other night was more serious than they could have guessed.

"Rachel, sweetie, you know I love and adore you, but - are you _insane?_ Delicate types such as we should _never_ be put in a position where we could possibly burn, injure or even maim ourselves -"

She cut him off with a wave of her fork, letting her fruit fall back into the cup. "No, no - it's _perfect!_ Our parents wouldn't have to put so much spending money in our bank accounts if we got jobs here, and you could invite Starchild over for a coffee date when you got a break during your shift. Don't you see? Oh, and Santana would make a great waitress, too!"

Kurt groaned, holding his head in his hands. "Now I _know_ you've lost your mind. Santana, a great waitress?" He laughed at the thought, shaking his head. "She would probably _kill_ the first person who dared not to over-tip her. No, no, no - seriously, this is an incredibly bad idea, Rachel. You _don't_ want to put Santana in a place where she'll have access to steak knives and an array of hot beverages to throw in customers' faces."

"That is _not_ a nice thing to say about someone who's been a very good friend to you," Rachel pointed out, frowning around a bite of fruit. "And it's an exaggeration, besides. Santana can actually be very...personable, when she wants to be."

"I say, let her get a job she's more suited for, like a lion tamer, or gun moll for the mob," Kurt huffed. "And leave me out of it. I'll find a job that's more my style."

"Fine, then. Be that way." Rachel rooted around in her fruit cup with her fork, looking for the last bit of peach, then set it down after not finding it. "I'm telling you right now, though - you'll regret it when you miss out on all the fun we're going to be having here."

"Right - because that's _just_ what Santana wants, I'm sure. To work with you, on top of living with you _and_ going to school with you." Rachel looked hurt at this. Kurt quickly moved to make up for his mistake. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out. All I'm saying is that you should think this idea through very carefully before you bring it to Santana."

The bill had been left on the table when the waiter had brought their fruit cups. Without a word, Rachel snatched it up before Kurt could even get a look at it, rising from the table with her debit card in hand. Her dads made more money than his tire shop owner father and office manager step-mother, so she usually insisted on paying the check when they went out to eat - unless, of course, they were with Santana, whose doctor dad and nurse mom made even more than Rachel's dads. Kurt sighed, nonplussed. At least he was at NYADA on scholarship, unlike his two roommates. Still, he would have liked to pay for a meal sometime. It made him feel like a perpetual third wheel. He reached into his pocket, surreptitiously removed his wallet, and threw a few dollars on the table. It didn't quite make up for things, but he felt a little better anyway.

Meanwhile, Rachel marched over to the cash register as though she was walking on stage to sing a crowd-pleasing ballad, startling the drowsy-looking petite blonde seated there.

"Hello. I would like to pay our bill now, please."

Kurt joined her, noticing the dark circles under the blonde woman's eyes. He wondered what her story was, until she leaned forward and he caught the distinct scent of several different types of alcohol blended together wafting off her. A quick glance at Rachel, crinkling her nose in obvious distaste, told him that she'd noticed as well.

"Oh, hi." The woman smiled, wobbling on her stool. "Well, aren't you a cute couple? First date? Little piece of advice, sweetie - wait until at least the third date to...you know. Gotta get to know each other and all that."

" _What?"_ They both laughed in unison, looking at each other as though this was the most absurd thing they'd ever heard - which it _was,_ of course. Rachel handed over the bill and her debit card, suddenly anxious, wondering if this woman actually knew how to work the cash register. Kurt put his hand on her arm to calm her.

"No, no," he said, blushing. "We're not - I mean, it's not like that. We're best friends. Since high school, actually. Now we're attending NYADA together."

"Oh, really? NYADA, huh? Wow. I went to Juilliard myself...but that was a long, long time ago." She squinted at the two of them, leaning still further forward, teetering dangerously over the counter. "You going to the Broadway, then?"

The woman handed the card and slip to Rachel, who didn't fail to draw a perfect star beneath her name even in the midst of this strange conversation. _The Broadway?_

"I am," Rachel said confidently as she placed her copy of the credit slip along with her card back into her wallet, and her wallet back into her purse. "I was born for the stage."

"You don't say? Well, good luck to you, sweetie." The blonde's eyes cut over to Kurt. "How about you? Were you born for the stage too, like your _friend_ here?"

Something in the woman's eyes, even as unfocused as they were, caught and held him. Some old longing, more potent than mere nostalgia, swirled in them. He found he couldn't look away, despite the fact that Rachel was tugging at his sleeve, obviously more than ready to leave.

"I'm...undecided," he replied, finally. "I love performing, but I don't know that I could do everything that actors are required to do."

The woman laughed uproariously at this. Kurt tensed, in case he had to pick her up off the floor. Rachel clutched at his arm, slightly terrified.

"Squeamish about kissin', huh? No, no, don't ask me how I know. Let's just say I've seen your type in here before. Yours too, missy. A lot of dreams have walked in and out of this place. Some of 'em have even come true." She paused, the longing now clearly visible in her lined, but still pretty face. "But you know what, dolls? I like you. I need a couple more people to fill out my wait staff. Why don't you come back in a day or two, fill out applications? I pay better than most, so you won't have to depend on tips quite as much."

Rachel brightened, suddenly not so eager to leave. "Really? I mean, a part-time job would really help. New York is an expensive place to live."

"Don't I know it, darlin'. How about you, fancy face? You interested?"

"He doesn't think he has the skill set to adequately perform in this kind of setting," Rachel answered for him. "But I have another friend and roommate who I think would be perfect." Kurt groaned. Rachel elbowed him in the ribs, cutting off his wordless protest.

"Well, bring her - or _him_ , whatever - along with you, then." The blonde woman winked, pleased. "Now, go on. I'm sure you've got other things to do besides standin' around here talking to me." She made shooing motions with her hands at the two students as they shuffled towards the door. "And I'll see _you_ in a couple of days, missy. I'm April Rhodes, owner and proprietor of this establishment. What's _your_ name, by the way? I'll probably forget it anyway, just so you know, but humor me."

"Rachel Berry, ma'am."

"Rachel Berry, future star. Huh." April nodded, as though she was trying to lodge Rachel's name in some crevice in her brain. "Okay, then. Have a good night, you two! And don't do anything I wouldn't do - which doesn't leave out much, actually." Then she laughed heartily at her own joke, as though it was the first time she'd ever made it, while the doors closed behind Rachel and Kurt.

Kurt would wonder for the rest of the night whether the woman had fallen off her stool after that.


	6. Pride and the Fall

**Chapter 6: Pride and the Fall**

When they'd graduated from McKinley, Quinn had bought train passes for herself and Rachel to use so that they could visit each other on weekends. She hadn't quite counted on the exhaustive workload at Yale, but as she'd done throughout her life, she'd marshaled her will and pushed through it all so that she could get where she wanted to be. And right now, where she wanted to be was in New York City. Amazingly, she'd somehow gotten Kurt and Santana to keep quiet about this, her first visit to the Big Apple (or second, if you counted the Glee Club's trip there for Nationals) - and not only that, she'd gotten them to agree to pick her up and get her back to the loft in Bushwick while Rachel was either in class or working at the diner. As she looked out the window of the speeding train, watching nothing in particular as land and buildings and other people's lives passed by, she felt her excitement mounting at the thought of finally seeing Rachel for real again. It would be so good to see her girlfriend not as an image on her computer screen, or words in a text message, or even as a voice on her phone. It had only been a couple of months since they'd started their college lives, yet to Quinn, it had felt like an eternity - and she was certain that Rachel felt exactly the same way.

She'd tried to nap on the train, but she was far too nervous to sleep. Not when she would soon be holding Rachel in her arms again, hearing Rachel's infectious laugh in her ears, feeling the beat of her heart against her own. It seemed like some sort of dream to her, but it was in fact real, and she could hardly believe it. She pulled out her phone and sent a group text to Kurt and Santana to make sure, once again, that they knew when her train would be arriving, and that Rachel would definitely _not_ be in the loft when they got her back there.

 **Quinn** _ **: 30 minutes to go. You two in position?**_

 **Santana:** _ **God, yes, for the 1000th time, Q. Jeez, Rachel has really rubbed off on you. Relax. We've got this.**_

 **Kurt:** _ **Don't mind Santana. She's just stressed because she's not still not sure she can handle school *and* working at the diner.**_

 **Santana:** _ **At least we _have_ jobs, Ladyface. Weren't you supposed to be getting one too?**_

 **Quinn:** _ **Please, please, do NOT put me in the middle of your daily squabbles. All I want is a peaceful & relaxing weekend with my girlfriend.**_

 **Kurt:** _ **Peaceful? Relaxing? I'm sorry, but you've met Rachel, haven't you? She doesn't DO 'relaxing.' This is the same girl who was disappointed to find out that there are no extra vocal workshops on Saturdays.**_

 **Santana:** _ **For once, Kurt is right. Honestly, I know you're in love with her and everything - which, honestly, I still don't get how _that_ happened - but you know about 50 seconds after you arrive, she's going to hijack whatever agenda you think you have, and she'll have you standing at the top of the Empire State Building or traipsing through the Theater District and you won't even remember how you even got there.**_

 **Quinn:** _ **Nope. Not going to happen. You see, I know something YOU don't. I know how to get Rachel to relax.**_

 **Kurt:** _ **Impossible! I refuse to believe it until I see it - unless it involves some kind of...physical activity between you two. In which case, I don't want to see it or even THINK about it. Oh God, now it's in my head! Make it stop! I hate you both right now.**_

 **Santana:** _ **Kurt Hummel: still afraid of girl cooties.**_

 **Quinn:** _ **You two are impossible. Look, just be where you're supposed to be, make sure that Rachel is where she's supposed to be, and everything else will take care of itself.**_

 **Santana:** _ **So what is it, Quinn? Your secret, I mean. It might come in handy, because honestly, there have already been way too many times when I've wanted to slip a sleeping pill into her protein shake.**_

 **Kurt:** _ **You *had* to ask, didn't you?**_

 **Santana:** _ **Yes. Yes, I did. If for no other reason than that I love to watch you flail your arms around like a Muppet having a nervous breakdown. It's so much fun to watch. Brittany says you're - and I quote - "better than Elmo." And you know that girl knows her Muppets.**_

 **Quinn:** _ **I can see I'm going to have to tie you to your beds or something when we get to the loft just to keep Santana from mauling you, Kurt. Anyway, here's the secret, since you asked. One word: massage.**_

 **Kurt:** _ ***blink blink***_ _**WHAT?**_

 **Quinn:** _ **Massage. Nothing relaxes Rachel like a good, strong deep tissue massage. She carries a lot of tension in her neck and shoulders. That's why she gets headaches sometimes. I start at her neck, then move to her shoulders, then to her back. ALL THE WAY down her back, down to just above her cute little...**_

 **Kurt:** _ **Oh, God. I feel like I'm going to break out in hives.**_

 **Santana:** _ **Muppet alert! I'm recording you now, Kurt. Say hello to Brittany!**_

 **Quinn:** _ **LOL - see you soon. XOXOXO**_

. . .

Holly tapped on the keys of her laptop without actually pressing any of them, trying to figure out what she wanted to say. She and Cassie had been successfully emailing back and forth for a couple of months now, and finally - _finally -_ they were getting past the small talk and into deeper, more meaningful conversations. Just like the ones they used to have.

Though Holly couldn't be sure that Cassandra was ever sober when she typed (she didn't make mistakes; rather, she just tended to go off on tangents at times), it was a very pleasant surprise to hear from her after nothing for so long. She was amazed to learn that Cassie was still allowed anywhere near the theatre world, but to work at NYADA was an especially impressive feat after everything that had happened. And to discover that they lived so close to one another seemed like madness.

 _I really should invite her to coffee or something - emailing seems kind of ridiculous when we're just a 20-minute cab ride away from each other,_ she thought as she sipped from a bottle of water, obviously procrastinating. _What are you so afraid of? Don't think you can trust her to show up?_ Deep down, she knew the answer. That was _exactly_ what she was afraid of. Cassie had once been the most loyal member of their little group, but after her big Broadway plummet, she'd started to let everyone down. Holly figured it was all her decimated self-esteem allowed her to do; the only way she could salvage her wounded pride was to lick her wounds in isolation.

 _You're being ridiculous, Holliday. Give her your phone number and invite her to coffee. It won't kill you if she says no. She's probably a busy woman, working at that school._ She sucked in a breath and typed her phone number into the email.

 **I know you're probably busy as hell corrupting Broadway wannabes, but if you ever have a free hour or something, we should catch up in person. Get some coffee, maybe. Only if you want to.** She bit her lip, wondering how much she should say, then continued: **I miss your pretty face. I miss my best friend - and while emailing with you has been great, I'd like to hang out with you again for real. I miss you, Cassie.**

She closed her eyes and hit 'send.' Even though they'd been writing for a while, it still made her nervous to send an email. Like it was all too good to be true, a dream from which she'd soon wake.

 _Maybe she's going to tell you that you need to just move on. Gross - what are we, some cheesy Hallmark TV-movie couple that broke off an engagement? We both need to just get over the past already._

She drank more of her water and stared at her computer screen, sighing. "How did we get to this?" she asked herself aloud.

Cassie's reply arrived before she could come up with an answer.

 **Hol,**

 **To answer your first question: yes, I** _ **am**_ **single. Shocking, I know. I got too old for one-night stands, and honestly, relationships are just too complicated for me. Too bad you were never one for the ladies, you and I would've made a good pair. (I'm kidding. Partially.)**

 **My schedule is pretty chaotic, but I have zero social life. Again, i'm sure this comes as a huge shock to you. So I'm sure I could squeeze in coffee, somewhere. That is, if you truly still want to be friends with someone like me. I worry that I'm too different now, that you won't like this Cassie. God knows Shelby's already made up her mind, since she won't even give me a chance…**

 **I'll text you after class tomorrow, if that doesn't mess with your teaching schedule. We can try to get together.**

 **Love you, Holly. That's one thing that hasn't changed.**

 **\- Cass**

Holly laughed at the email's start, rolling her eyes. Though she and Cassie had definitely experimented, it was never her cup of tea. Cassandra, on the other hand, couldn't quit once she'd started. As far as Holly knew, Cass had never gone back to guys again. She smiled, glad that the woman who'd once meant so much to her (and still did, really) hadn't said no to her coffee request.

 _Maybe this friendship isn't as lost as I'd thought it was. Maybe we can get something back. She seems so lonely - and I don't recall her ever being so self-deprecating..._

Finishing off her water bottle, she shut down her computer and decided it was time to get to bed. She would wait for Cassie's text after her classes and see where they could go from there. She felt bad about Shelby, but the final third of their onetime trio was simply too guarded, too unwilling to risk getting hurt again. She rarely let anyone burn her twice, and Holly figured that she wasn't about to start now. That was something Holly imagined she'd have to explain, once she and Cassie were face to face. She lay in the dark, thinking about what else they might talk about, until her mind finally shut off and allowed her to sleep.

Quinn felt a strange mixture of relief and excitement upon seeing that Kurt and Santana were there when her train pulled up. Her wide, toothsome smile reached all the way up to her eyes, and she felt her heart swell in a way it hadn't since the last time they'd all been together back in Lima. The Skype chats, text messages and phone conversations had been nice, but nothing could ever replace seeing these people live and in person. She hurried off the train as quickly as she could, shouldering her large weekend bag and barely keeping the urge to push through the crowd of exiting passengers in check.

"Quinn!" Kurt cried, throwing himself at her, engulfing her in a gigantic hug that was almost Brittany-like. She stiffened for a moment, then dropped her bag and wrapped her arms around the boy's slender frame, relaxing and melting into the embrace. It felt so good. It felt like home.

When Kurt stepped away, Quinn saw tears standing in his always bright eyes, which made hers well up too. She'd spent so much of her life trying to deny her feelings - to not feel much of anything at all - that the rush of emotions coursing through her now was still a bit of a strange sensation to her.

"It's really good to see you, Quinn," he said, trying to regain his composure. "You look beautiful. How is it that your skin looks even more perfect now than it did back home? Are you hiding any new tricks from me?"

"No," Quinn laughed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she'd produced from the pocket of her long coat. "I promise, I'm not holding out on you. And it's really good to see you too."

Santana cleared her throat, and Quinn drew her into a tight embrace. "Well, as exciting as this is - and it's really _not_ , actually - we should get moving on," she said, stepping out of the hug after only a few moments. She studied her best friend's flushed, happy face. "I admit, you _do_ look good, Q." She grinned the devilish grin which only Quinn knew as a secret sign of happiness. "Finally, you'll get to enjoy the unparalleled experience that is life with Rachel Berry the way we have. Which, I'm sure, will cause any thought of future life plans with the hobbit to fly right out of your blonde head."

"Well, hello to you too, Santana," Quinn laughed. "Rachel tells me you're no picnic as a roommate either. I mean, really - do you absolutely _have_ to hang your delicates all over the shower curtain rod?"

Kurt chuckled at the furious glare Santana directed Quinn's way. "No! _No_ , she does not. But you know our dear Satan - she doesn't listen to _anybody._ The more we tell her not to do something, the more she does that very thing. She's incorrigible."

"Laugh it up, Ladyface. Or do you want me to tell her the story of how I found you in bed one morning, on top of the covers, completely _au naturel?_ "

"The heat was up too high! I couldn't sleep!" Kurt protested, red-faced.

"That's not the only thing that was awake," Santana said, cackling at the boy's beet-red complexion. It was really far too easy to fluster the poor boy.

"Oh my God. Next time, I'm having Rachel come to Yale," Quinn murmured under her breath, shaking her head. "Come on, you two. Like Santana said, we should get moving if we want to get back to the loft before Rachel does." She picked up her bag and raised an eyebrow at her friends in classic HBIC style, dropping her voice to the low, dangerous pitch they remembered all too well from the days when she'd ruled the cheerleading squad with an iron fist. " _Now._ "

"Yes, Queen," Santana replied tartly. "Well? You heard the woman, Kurt - get moving!" The boy stumbled when she nudged him slightly, but it _did_ get him to pick up the pace as they began to make their way out of the station.

"Okay, okay! I'm moving. Sheesh! And here I thought having Quinn around might mellow you out a bit."

"Oh, Kurt," Quinn laughed, her hazel eyes sparkling with mirth. "Have you learned _nothing_ in these last couple of months? You should know by now - Santana doesn't _do '_ mellow.'"

Santana nodded, offering Quinn her pinky. The blonde girl took it with a smile.

"Damn right," she said, baring her teeth in a feral grin. "Let's go, bitches. Time's a-wasting, and we don't want to let the dwarf beat us home, now do we?"

. . .

"Higher! Higher! HIGHER!" Cassie shouted, as her students did leg raises across the studio floor. Her cane pounded a constant rhythm in sync with the music and her throbbing head. _I. Can't. Fucking. Be. Here,_ she thought to herself even as she barked out her orders. The students' uncoordinated efforts were putting her on edge, and her thoughts kept drifting back to other things. Things like agreeing to a coffee date with Holly Holliday.

 _You. Are. So. Pa-thet-ic._

Her mind wouldn't switch off, wouldn't give her a break. What if Holly realized she didn't want any part of this world anymore and ditched her? What if she was still mad from before and was just keeping those feelings bottled up somehow? She didn't _really_ want to try to be her friend again, did she? What if she was just taking pity on her?

 _You know that's what it is. A pity date. She'll see how ridiculous my life is now, head back home, never see me again, and laugh with Shelby about how they got the better hand. That's what this is to her. Some sense of closure, a chance to see that she hasn't missed out on anything and she still won't if she stays away._

 _Don't flatter yourself so much. This might not even be about you. Maybe she just ran out of other friends and you're her last resort._

She realized she was wobbling a bit as she pulled herself from her thoughts. She leaned against the back wall to keep herself steady, closed her eyes against the lights and the heat and the movement in the room.

 _You're going to make yourself sick with all this 'what if' stuff. Stop acting like a child._

"Take five, everybody. Stretch your legs out," she commanded, her voice weaker than usual. She slid down the wall, bouncing her head off of it a few times. "Get your shit together, July…" she mumbled to herself, hoping none of the students had heard. Especially that Rachel Berry girl, who appeared to be watching her like a hawk.

A student approached her, worriedly wringing her hands. "Miss July? I wanted to ask you about something, if that's okay."

Cassie snapped back to reality. "Well you're already here, aren't you?" She rolled her eyes. "What is it?"

"I'm in your evening ballet class as well, and...well, my boyfriend got us tickets to this one-night event for our anniversary and they're nonrefundable. I know we aren't supposed to miss class, but-" the student sounded nervous, timid. But Cassie had no patience for it.

"If you _know_ you aren't supposed to miss class, then why are you even bothering to ask for permission?" Cassandra's voice sounded bored, even in her own ears. Tired. Dazed.

"I-I just thought...maybe this once it would be okay to, um…"

"Oh, you _did_ , did you?" Cassie pulled herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane. "You think that once you're in a show on Broadway and have to perform eight shows a week they're just going to let you call out because you want to take a break and go see another show? I don't think that's how life works." She walked past the student, who had the nerve to square her shoulders and continue.

"Please, Miss July. I've been working really hard, and -"

"That doesn't mean _anything_!" Cassandra spun back around and glared at the young girl, silencing her. "You think just because you _work hard_ you deserve to be rewarded? Wake up, sweetheart. _Everyone_ works hard - to be here, to be noticed, to be even the _littlest_ bit successful. You think because you drive to campus, show up to class, and perform barely as well as any other mediocre background dancer that you deserve some kind of gold medal?" Cass shrugged her shoulders, feeling exhausted. Her vision began to cloud again. The room spun. The lights were as harsh as miniature suns.

"No, Miss July. That isn't what I was saying at all. I just -"

"You just what? Think you're _better_ than everyone else? Everyone else who actually _wants_ to show up to my class? Who work their asses off to be here, just like you claim to do?"

Rachel grew more and more worried as the conversation intensified. Her jaw dropped in shock at the way Ms. July spoke to her student. _I have no idea why Santana speaks so highly of this woman - she's insane!_ she thought to herself, taking a sip from her water bottle. She crossed her arms over her chest in an unconscious expression of self-protection.

"Let me tell you something, sweetheart," the dance instructor continued, rounding on the poor, unfortunate girl. "You want to do well in this class? You're gonna have to prove it to me. Your actions speak way louder than anything you have to say to me." Slowly, she backed the girl up to the wall in the corner of the studio. "ALL of your actions speak louder than ANYTHING you have to say to me." Cassandra spun suddenly, now directing her rant towards the rest of the class as well. "I'm _sick and tired_ of all of you thinking you're the next Barbra fucking Streisand! It's not enough to just _think_ you're a star. Do you know how good _I_ used to think I was? Newsflash, people. You're nowhere _near_ as good as you think you are, I guarantee you that. And that talent isn't going to get you _anywhere_ if you can't prove yourself as a person first. You want to show me you're a good dancer? _Great_. But you also need to prove that you're someone I can work with. That's all they care about," she continued, swinging her cane back and forth like a menacing metronome. Students scrambled to get out of her warpath as she stalked around the room.

"No one cares how _good_ you are." An image of her younger self flashed in her mind. "Or how _beautiful_ you are." An image of young Shelby, all dark hair and large eyes. "Or how _skinny_ and _talented_ and _likable_ you are." Holly, smiling and laughing. "You get _one_ chance. _One_. And then, when you blow it? You're _finished!_ " At that last word, spat with bitter venom, she threw her cane across the room, where it shattered one of the full-length mirrors, shards of glass raining down onto the floor, students jumping and scattering at the impact.

Then they all froze, staring, unsure what to do next, not wanting to anger their irate instructor any further.

Her head was spinning, throbbing, a vise at her temples. She needed some vodka. She needed something, _anything_ , to make the pain go away. It had been way too long since her last drink. Too long since she'd had friends her age. Too long since she'd been a performer, living out her dream. She was so fed up with these stupid little brats. They didn't even appreciate what she was trying to do for them. She was trying to help them succeed where she hadn't, learn the things she hadn't known. The things that maybe would have kept her on the stage instead of ending up here. Her vision started blurring again. Her small-framed body shook with adrenaline and raw, unbridled fury, but she felt too weak at this point to keep on yelling. Even as she opened her mouth to say something else, a curtain of blackness fell over her eyes. She felt herself falling, but couldn't find the strength to save herself from hitting the wood.

"Miss July!" A couple of students cried out in shock, the unmistakable voice of Rachel Berry more prominent, sounding closer than the others. She felt a pair of small, strong hands on her wrist and then her arm, checking to make sure she was okay. "Miss July, who can I call? Are you okay?"

Though the majority of students took the opportunity to flee before the woman found something else to throw, a few stayed behind in stunned silence. Rachel, crouching at her side, took immediate action, pulling her phone from her purse to call Santana. She didn't want to get Cassandra in trouble with the police - it was obvious the poor woman had enough issues - and she wasn't important enough to get the attention of Carmen Tibideaux on short notice. She had to hope that Santana would know what to do.

. . .

"Charming little place you've got here," said Quinn as they entered the loft, trailing Kurt and Santana through the large sliding door.

She cast a critical eye about the loft, taking in all the details: the couch that looked like they'd picked it off a trash heap (Rachel had denied it after Santana had texted a picture of the thing, but upon seeing it up close, it was clear that her first impression had been correct), the infamous curtains hung where the bedroom doors should have been, the kitchen with the burn marks on the ceiling from the time Rachel had attempted to make grilled cheese sandwiches for her roommates - even the delicates Kurt had mentioned, hanging limp and listless from the shower curtain rod in the small bathroom. _How did they manage to fit a tub and shower in there anyway?_ she wondered. _It doesn't seem physically possible._

"Well, it's not much, but it's home," Kurt chirped, not even bothering to take off his jacket and plopping himself into a chair by the kitchen table as Santana flipped on the lights. "And by _home_ , I mean it's just about livable. That's what you get for the lowest rent we could find outside of an urban war zone."

"Why didn't you just live in the dorms? Rachel showed me pictures in the NYADA materials she received, and they looked really nice! Even nicer than the ones at Yale." She dropped her bag at her feet and shrugged out of her coat, absently noting the pile of clean dishes on the counter by the sink, and the large wine bottle and glasses next to it. "I know that room and board isn't cheap, but you're on full scholarship, and Rachel's dads and Santana's parents could have afforded it."

Santana threw her McKinley High School jacket on the couch and made a beeline for the wine bottle, handing a glass to Quinn and one to Kurt. Then she removed the cork and poured the rich, aromatic liquor into her own glass, followed by Quinn's and then Kurt's.

"Because we knew that Rachel's and Kurt's roommates would probably kill them, and I would probably kill mine. Self-preservation, really. After all, you'd rather visit me _here_ than in prison, right?" She took a sip of the wine, laughing, as she gazed at Quinn. The blonde smiled back at her as she took her own seat at the kitchen table. "Oh, don't give me that look, Hummel. You know it's true."

"I do _not_." Kurt sniffed at his wine, ran his finger around the rim of his glass before taking a long sip. "At worst, I might have made a roommate feel badly about his sartorial choices, but I hardly think that would inspire anyone to commit _murder_. I'm just here to enlighten. After all, every moment is an opportunity for fashion, and far too many people fail to acknowledge that."

"You see what I'm talking about, Q? He just can't contain himself. Imagine that attitude around _normal_ people? No, we all had to move in together just to save him and the dwarf from themselves."

Quinn shook her head, laughing. Oh, how she'd missed this. She knew she would miss it even more after she left and went back to Yale, but for now, she would savor every word, every pointed jab, every eye roll, every sarcastic look that passed between them.

"And you too. After all, you just said you'd kill your own roommate as well," she pointed out around another sip of wine, feeling a pleasant warmth begin to settle in her chest as it circulated through her system. "Don't try to deny it. Kurt and I just heard you say it."

Santana put down her wine glass and reached up to let her hair out of the long ponytail she'd kept it in as a tribute to the times she'd shared with Quinn as a cheerleader back home. "Not denying anything. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: I keep it real, and I'm _hilarious_. So what if people don't like it when I point out that they suck?" She shrugged as if that were the answer to her own question. "You know the only straight I am is a straight-up bitch."

"As for Rachel, she would -" Kurt began, when suddenly he was cut off by the ring of Santana's cell phone. _Of course the ring tone would be her own voice, singing 'Constant Craving,'_ Quinn thought bemusedly. _And she says_ _ **Rachel's**_ _got an ego._

Retrieving the device from the pocket of her jacket, Santana frowned when she saw who was calling.

"Speak of the little devil," she said, pressing the "answer" button on the screen. "Yes, hobbit? What's up now? Strawberry Shortcake try to hook up with you again? Just tell her you're taken already! I know you're all about being polite, but _really."_

"Santana!" Rachel's voice crackled with worry, and the light, easy smile on Santana's face vanished. Her lips pressed into a thin line as Rachel continued. "You need to get to the dance studio right away. Something's wrong - _really_ wrong - with Professor July. I...I didn't know who else to call, or what else to do. Please hurry!"

"All right, all right, calm your tiny self. I'll be right there. Just stay where you are, okay? I'm on my way." Grimly, she ended the call and met her friends' concerned looks.

Quinn looked at her, eyes wide with worry, fingers clenched tightly around her wine glass. "Santana? What's wrong? Is - is Rachel okay? Is she hurt?" She stood, a wild, frantic look on her face. Kurt put his hand on her arm to steady her even as his own face paled. "Tell me! What's going on?"

"It's not Rachel," she said, putting her jacket on, glad she hadn't taken her sneakers off yet. "She's fine, Q. It's our dance teacher, the one she told you about - Cassandra July. Something's happened to her - Rachel didn't say what, exactly. You stay here with Kurt. I'll call or text you once I get to her, when I know more about whatever's going on."

Kurt stood as Quinn grabbed her own coat. "We're coming with you," he declared. "If something's really wrong, you're going to need help."

"No. Look, I don't want to draw too much attention. She's on thin ice with Tibideaux as it is. If there's a big scene, that could just make things worse. I have to do this myself. Just stay here. Like I said, I'll clue you in on exactly what's happening as soon as I can. All right?"

Quinn held her own phone in a slightly trembling hand. "I'm calling Rachel. I have to know she's all right."

"Q, _no._ Please. Rachel needs to keep a close eye on Ms. July. I'd prefer for her not to be distracted, and nothing distracts her like _you_. I understand how you feel, Q, believe me - but you've got to trust me on this, okay?"

"All right." Quinn lowered the phone to the table and slid bonelessly back into her seat. Her body was coiled with tension; Kurt could feel the muscle in her forearm jump under his gentle grasp. Her bottom lip trembled. "We'll stay. But you call us the minute you see Rachel. You hear me? The _minute_ you see her."

"I will, Q. I promise. Take care of her, Kurt."

The young man could only nod in answer, unable to find his voice for fear of it breaking. In the next moment, the sliding loft door clicked shut and Santana was gone, leaving him and Quinn alone with their unanswered questions, their unresolved worries.

. . .

When Santana finally got to the building where the school's numerous dance studios were housed, she decided not to wait for the notoriously slow elevator and took the stairs two at a time, glad for her natural sure-footedness and increased physical stamina. She wasn't even slightly winded by the time she made it up to the fifth floor. She ran over to the open door, where she saw Rachel hovering in the empty space between it and the slumping form of Cassandra July, looking frightened and concerned. Santana's heart clenched at the sight of her friend in distress - then clenched still tighter when she saw the dance instructor trying and failing to rise to her feet, mumbling incoherently to herself.

"Oh, Santana! I'm so glad you're finally here!" Rachel cried, launching herself at Santana like a tiny missile. "I...I didn't know what else to do. The other students all left - I guess they assumed Ms. July would be in good hands with me, although I have no idea why - and I've been trying to keep her awake in case she has some kind of brain injury or something."

Santana stiffened at first, trying to wrap her mind around the unreality of the whole scene - strong, powerful Cassandra July seemingly helpless as a newborn kitten - then gently returned Rachel's embrace, although she really could have done without the girl digging her nails into the back of her expensive _faux_ leather jacket.

"It's okay, Rachel," she said in the calmest voice she could produce when Rachel finally released her, trying to focus on her roommate while still keeping Cassandra in her peripheral vision. "Everything's gonna be all right. Can you tell me what happened? What was Ms. July doing before she collapsed?"

"Ranting. One of the other students said something that just completely set her off, and she went on this long, wild screed, just blistering, and then...it was just like the light in her eyes was switched off, and she went down. It was scary. No one had any idea what to do - they didn't want to call 911 because that would mean they'd have to stay, and I guess they all had way more important things to do, so it was like, ' _Hey, let Rachel handle this'_ \- as if I had any more of a clue than the rest of them."

"Well, you _do_ project an air of confidence and professionalism. Or at least that's what you tell us all the time," Santana joked, in an effort to keep the rising dread she felt inside from choking her entirely. "So really, it's your own fault."

Rachel stamped her foot in irritation, grabbing one of Santana's hands at the same time. "This is no time for jokes," she said. Tugging at the hand she held, she led Santana across the floor to where Cassandra July slumped against the wall. "I _really_ don't like the way she looks. It's...unsettling." She frowned in concern as she crouched in front of the semi-conscious woman, whose breathing seemed a little heavy.

The dance teacher's eyes were closed, as though she were asleep - but when Rachel lightly rested a hand on her shoulder, they snapped open, and she weakly pushed the small girl away, eliciting a yelp of surprise.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she croaked. "Get away! I'm...I'm all right...just need some air, that's all. Some air...n' maybe some bourbon."

"Miss July - you are a hot fucking mess," Santana commented, not entirely surprised by the day's turn of events - and clearly not impressed by the woman's condition either.

" _Santana!"_ Rachel scolded. "She's still your teacher."

Santana rolled her eyes as she crouched down to get on Cassie's level, pressing her lips together. _For once, the dwarf is right._ She nodded a quick apology at her roommate, then returned her attention to Cassandra. "I'm sorry. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?"

"If you know what's _good_ for you…" Cassie's voice was less of a croak and more of a rasp now, gaining strength. She let out a heavy breath, her throat burning, her head pounding. At least when she opened her eyes she could see more than just black again. "You'll...get the _hell_...out of my studio."

Santana stared down at the dance instructor, dumbfounded. There they were, trying to help this damned wreck of a woman, and she had the audacity to growl at them and push them away? _Oh, hell no._ "We're just trying to help, Miss July," Rachel volunteered. "You fainted."

"I'm aware," The color in Cassandra's face was slowly returning. "Thank you for checking on me...now would you _please_ get the hell out." Shakily, she pushed herself to her feet, holding her arms out slightly for balance, desperately trying to keep her head, and the room, from spinning. _If I can just stay upright for just a few minutes by myself, I'll be able to walk. Get to some bourbon, some vodka, anything. I'll be fine then._

"Your gratitude is positively overwhelming," Santana snapped, her voice at once icy and dripping with sarcasm. "No _wonder_ you're up for both Teacher of the Year _and_ Miss Congeniality. Tell me, Professor Badass, how do you do it? What kind of compromising photos or other blackmail material do you have on Carmen Tibideaux? Because I honestly can't _begin_ to imagine how you keep this job, being as profoundly fucked up as you _clearly_ are."

Taken aback, but unable to formulate a proper rebuttal, Cassandra forced her eyes open, managing only a squint, and tried to glare Santana down. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the feisty young woman cut her off.

"No." Her hand flashed out in a cutting gesture. "No. I don't want to hear it. You know what? I don't _care_ how you got this way. I don't give a damn about what happened to you ten years ago, or fifteen years ago, or a _hundred_ years ago. That's _your_ business. But _my_ education, _my_ training - _that_ is _my_ business." Her voice had risen to a shout as Rachel looked on in shock and horror, the smaller girl warning her with her eyes to stop _now_. Santana knew she was way out of line, but suddenly, she didn't give a damn. She was who she was, and she'd kept it real all her life. She was not about to stop now, no matter the situation or the person who needed to hear what she had to say. Rachel grabbed her arm, attempting to pull her away - somehow she had gotten nose to nose with the former Broadway star without noticing - but Santana shrugged it off.

"And I'll be _damned_ if my parents are gonna pay a _crapload_ of money to have a fucking drunk off her ass _loser_ like _you_ scream in my face about how _unfair_ the world has been to her while simultaneously failing to provide me the _elite instruction_ that NYADA boasts about in its brochures and subway ads." She crossed her arms and shook her head fiercely, fairly trembling with anger and trying desperately to contain it, prevent it from getting out of control. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was on thin ice, that one more word could send her falling through to plunge into the freezing water of suspension or maybe even expulsion. Yet she just couldn't hold back. _Someone_ had to tell this bitch what was what, and it might as well be her. There were other schools in the world. "No way. I can't believe that I actually have to explain this to the great Cassie July, but here's the bottom line, okay? What you do on _your_ time is one thing. What you do when you're _here_ is another, because _that_ is _our_ time - and you have _no fucking_ _right_ to waste it like you do yours."

Cassandra blinked a few times, taking an extra minute to process everything Santana had just said. Never before had she been silenced by anyone - but the combination of her previous panic and her current frustration, on top of Santana's rant, had stunned her. At a loss, she narrowed her eyes into what she hoped was an intimidating glare and growled a final _get out_ at the two students. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, trying not to think about how Carmen would surely have her ass this time.

Infuriated beyond belief, Santana grabbed Rachel's arm and half-dragged her out the door, grumbling along the way. Cassandra tried to listen, but she couldn't quite make out what the girl was saying as she watched the animated duo leave. She sighed in relief as the door closed behind them.

 _Just get yourself in check, July._ Cassie admonished herself, using the barre for support as she wobbled more than walked to the front of the studio, shaking her head at the sight of the broken glass all over the floor. _Worry about the rest later._


	7. Fallen Angels and Second Chances

**Hayley here: sorry for the long hiatus- getting a degree, although rewarding, can sometimes be a drag. Thank you all for your continued support of this story, we hope we haven't lost your interest with our little break we had to take. As always, we love and fully encourage feedback- detailed reviews help us out so much, so please be sure you're leaving them for us to read.**

 **Thank you so much! Enjoy !**

 **Chapter 7: Fallen Angels and Second Chances**

Holly bit at her lower lip and checked the clock on her phone again, immediately chastising herself for it afterwards. _It hasn't changed since you checked it three seconds ago, Hol,_ she reminded herself. _She isn't even late, you're just early._

She and Cassie had agreed to meet at a coffee shop almost equidistant from their apartments, a cute little place called "I Like You a Latte". Although Holly found the name sort of quirky, it appeared to be a well-loved café with very good coffee. So far, as she was a quarter of a way through her first cup, she couldn't argue with the reviews she'd read online. The service wasn't bad either.

Before she had the chance to unlock her phone once more out of habit, she spied the unmistakable figure of Cassandra July striding towards her outside table of choice. It was a particularly nice day, so Holly had decided to take advantage of it. Judging by Cassandra's outfit - a pair of form fitting skinny jeans, black peekaboo heels, and a light tan cardigan - she'd also prepared for an afternoon spent outdoors. Holly couldn't help but smile when she locked eyes with Cassie. Although it was clear that the dancer had seen better days, it warmed Holly's heart to see her best friend again.

"Cassie," her grin was infectious, and Cassie smiled lovingly back at her. "It's so good to see you again."

Cass sat down at the table and nodded, genuinely happy. "It's great to see you too, Hol. You look amazing."

"You're gorgeous, as always," Holly knew she had to be honest. "But you look so tired."

Cassie nodded. "That's because," she paused when a barista made it to their table and gave her order before continuing. "I _am_ tired." there was no point in lying to Holly. To everyone else in her life, fine. But Holly could see right through her. "I'm _really_ tired, actually. But that's nothing new."

There was an odd tone to her voice that Holly couldn't quite place. It wasn't depressed or sad, exactly. It was something else, something she couldn't name. And that worried her. She schooled her expression to neutrality, not wanting the worry to show.

"I'm sure keeping busy drags you down. Dance is no joke - it's more like an extreme sport, in your case." Holly quipped.

Cassie shrugged. "I guess you're right, though I could never keep up with your schedule. You teach academics. I wouldn't want to deal with _your_ students. Ever. I have a hard enough time teaching the adults." When her coffee arrived she waited for the barista to leave the area and reached down to her purse, pulling out a small flask. She put a silent finger to her lips and poured a bit of the contents into her drink.

"Cassie, honey, what's going on?" Holly couldn't stand to see her being so reserved and detached. It was so unlike the person she used to know. "Are you doing okay?"

Cassandra scoffed.

"Is that why you asked me to coffee, Hol? A life intervention?"

She was getting defensive, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. Her self-doubt was eating her alive and Holly could tell she hadn't approached the situation the right way. Cassie was in rare form. "I know I didn't end up with as great a life as you or Shelby but I can still hold my own-"

"That's -" Holly cut her off, holding up a hand in apology. This was not the way she wanted things to start. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, then let it out in a short, sharp exhale. "That's _not_ what I meant, and you know it. Come on, you know better than that. This is me you're talking to, Cass. _Me._ The person who's never judged you - not once, not ever."

Cassandra let out a sigh of defeat. _Who are you kidding, July?_ "I know. I'm a mess. I'm sorry…" She was used to staying so strong throughout the day, and even, most of the time, through the night. This past week had been a shock for her, and to collapse in front of her own class was a huge wake up call. If Tibideaux calling her out wasn't enough, she knew that this conversation with Holly would be her last warning. "I've really missed you." her voice caught in her throat. "And Shelby. But I've accepted the fact that she'll never speak to me again...you were always different. So much more laid back. Forgiving. Even though I've never deserved it-"

"You've always deserved it, you over-dramatic fool," Holly smirked and Cassie gave a soft smile back. There was a pause. Cassie stared guiltily down at her spiked coffee and then cast a glance back up at Holly, a plea in her eyes. Holly nodded, giving her permission. Cass sipped the coffee in acknowledgment. "When did you pick that up?" Holly asked, not unkindly.

Cassie gave a little shrug. "Right before the meltdown. I guess you and Shelby just didn't notice. Not that it was your responsibility to or anything…"

"We should've paid more attention," Holly was already halfway through her first cup.

"That wasn't me blaming you," Cassie cut her off, swallowing hard. "I did it to myself. I didn't expect you to stay and watch the fall. That's why I told you both to get out."

There was a silence between them, both contemplating their current situation. _What were you hoping to get out of this coffee date, Hol?_ The woman asked herself. _Your best friend back? She may end up being your best friend again, but she'll never be the same woman she was. People change. Your bout of nostalgia isn't going to make her THAT Cassie again._

Cassie finished her cup and agreed to another one when the barista came back around, vowing to herself that she was going to leave it the way it came.

"Thanks for this," She said after a beat. "For this...second chance, or whatever you want to call it. I don't know that I'll do it the justice you're expecting, or anything. But it means a lot that you haven't given up on me."

There was so much power in her words. Holly reached across the table and took Cassie's hand. "Cass. I could never give up on you. And anyone that does is crazy."

Cassie scoffed. "That's _my_ name, actually. Crazy Cassie July."

Holly shook her head. "No one else is going to let it go if you don't do it first."

Cassie met Holly's green eyes. No one had ever explained it to her that way before, but the damned woman was right.

"I don't know what I've been doing without you."

. . .

Santana was still fuming - and Rachel was still trying to calm her down - when they finally returned to the loft, and Kurt and Quinn's worried faces. It actually took a moment for Rachel to realize that Quinn was even there, she was so focused on tamping down the leaping flames of her roommate's temper. She blinked a few times when she finally _did_ realize, turning with her mouth wide open in wordless shock first to Kurt and then to Santana, before shifting her gaze to the beautiful, hazel-eyed vision of Quinn Fabray at their kitchen table.

"Quinn?" she said, almost unable to believe that the vision was real and not some kind of stress-induced hallucination. "What - what are you doing here? Oh my God!" The blonde former Head Cheerio didn't get a chance to respond before her arms were full of Rachel, crying and laughing all at once.

"Hi," Quinn replied simply, her arms pinned to her sides by Rachel's desperate embrace. "Um...surprise?"

Rachel stepped back, her face flushed with happiness as she looked at Quinn one more time in stunned disbelief. "I can't believe you're here!" Then she glared at Kurt. "And you were in on this...this _surprise_ too, weren't you? You and Santana both! I can't believe you kept this from me!"

"That's kind of how surprises work, Rachel," Kurt said, smiling at his petite roommate's mock anger. "But don't blame me, or Satan over there. This was all Quinn's idea."

Santana, her rage at Cassandra July now down to a simmer instead of a boil, laughed at the sight of Rachel smacking Kurt on the arm, the boy rubbing the spot where the blow had landed as if it had actually hurt. "It's true, short stack. Ms. Fancy Face over there came up with the entire plan and recruited us as her willing hench-persons. This wasn't exactly how it was all supposed to go, though - the original plan had something to do with rose petals and _very_ skimpy lingerie. Isn't that right, Fabgay?"

The blush on the tiny diva's face was absolutely priceless, producing the famous Lopez smirk and cackle of laughter. Quinn, for her part, looked decidedly less amused, but then again, the prissy ex-cheerleader had always lacked a sense of humor as far as Santana was concerned.

" _Santana..._ " the ex-Head Bitch in Charge warned in a low tone.

"Oh, come on - what are you going to do, make me run laps?" Santana retorted. "You should thank me. Look at your girl there - she's practically in heat now, thanks to me. You're welcome, by the way."

"Oh my God, she _is,_ " Kurt added, his pale face going even paler at the dazed, far-away look in Rachel's eyes. "Please, make it stop!" He covered his own eyes, only half-jokingly.

Quinn blushed furiously, tapped Rachel lightly on the shoulder to bring her back to reality. In truth, she _had_ considered the scenario Santana described, but hadn't been able to decide on a set of lingerie that would do it justice during the limited time she'd had to prepare for the trip.

" _Anyway,"_ she said, clearing her throat as Rachel ducked her head in embarrassment, "You two had us worried half to death for a while there. What the hell even happened? And what kind of crisis takes place in a dance studio, anyway?"

Rachel took her girlfriend's hand, tugged her down into her chair as she took the one next to it. Kurt seated himself next to Santana on the other side of the table, still looking slightly mortified; the light of curiosity kindled in his eyes as he looked over at Santana.

"You want to take this one, Rachel? I'm not sure I can talk about it without breaking stuff just yet," she said, her anger still simmering inside despite the jokes she'd just made.

The former Glee Club star nodded, then turned her attention to Quinn and Kurt. "Well, as you know, Cassandra July is our dance teacher, and she's well-known for having quite a volatile temper. That temper manifested itself again today in class, when another student made the unfortunate mistake of asking for a day off."

Quinn's eyes widened. _What kind of teacher blows a gasket over an innocent request like that?_ she wondered. Kurt rested his chin on both hands, elbows propped up on the table; this kind of story had become all too familiar to him over the course of the semester, but he couldn't help but be fascinated anyway.

Rachel inclined her head towards Quinn, acknowledging her girlfriend's surprise. "Yes, even little things like that can set Ms. July off. You never really know what might be coming on any given day with her, but even I couldn't have expected or imagined this. She started ranting at this poor girl, just completely going off on her, and things escalated from there." She shook her head at the still-fresh memory. "I've never seen that level of rage before, not even from Coach Sylvester - it was truly scary. She started screaming at the entire class, and then, the next thing we knew, she actually threw her cane and smashed one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors with it. No one was hurt, thank goodness, but then Ms. July started slurring her words and getting all wobbly - and finally, she actually collapsed right there, in front of everybody."

Horrified, Quinn sucked in a breath of air. Yes, Sue Sylvester had been a nightmare and a half, but even she had never worked herself into such a state that she'd actually collapsed in the middle of a practice. Kurt sadly shook his head, lowering it into his hands. It honestly didn't surprise him to hear this, but even without knowing Cassandra July as Rachel and Santana did, he still found it heartbreaking.

"That woman's had it rough," he admitted. "I wouldn't want to go through what she has. Even if she _did_ do it to herself. Everyone deserves a second chance."

Santana shook her head. "Miss July doesn't believe in second chances." she pointed out. "She says it all the time."

"Maybe because no one has ever given her one?" Rachel suggested.

Santana continued to say no, cutting off Rachel's thought process. "Madame Tibideaux has," she said softly, then added as an afterthought, "Though I doubt Carmen was the only person in her life before. She seems to be the only one now."

The group sat, wondering. Where once they'd thought the woman was crazy, it was clear now that she had something mental going on with her. "We can't get her into trouble," Santana decided. "We aren't going to make this any more public than it already is."

Quinn took a drink from her water bottle. "But weren't there other students there? Who's to say they won't go to the Dean?"

Rachel bit her lip, understanding where Santana was going. "They won't. They're too afraid - of Miss July _and_ of Madame Tibideaux. Especially if Madame T is on Miss July's side. She isn't going to want to hear any student complaints about her. The woman needs help."

 _Maybe I can help her._ Santana had the brief thought and then mentally chastised herself. _Where the hell did that come from? It isn't your job to take care of your teacher. It's your job to learn from her. And all I've learned is not to drink on the job. Get your head out of the clouds, Lopez._

Suddenly Rachel brightened. "I have an excellent idea!" she exclaimed happily, contrasting with the rest of the group's now-somber mood. "I know exactly what to do."

"And what would that be? You're going to book her on the _Dr. Phil_ show?" Santana asked tartly. "Maybe a one-on-one world exclusive with Oprah?"

"I'd watch that," Kurt murmured, earning a disapproving glance from Quinn. "What? I'm just saying."

Rachel squeezed Quinn's hand. "While those are fine ideas as well, they're a little bit outside my sphere of influence at this early stage in my career. What I've got in mind is much simpler, but hopefully much more effective. And unlike those suggestions, my idea actually keeps Ms. July's name out of the glare of the media spotlight - which is the _last_ place it needs to be, frankly."

Quinn eyed the girl next to her with a look that was both curious and suspicious. "Okay, so that leaves out sending her to an inactive crack house," she deadpanned. Rachel stuck her tongue out at Quinn for that. "Seriously, though...what do you have in mind?"

As Rachel passionately detailed her plan (not needing a PowerPoint presentation for once), the others nodded warily. It could work. Santana found herself hoping it would, for her teacher's sake - because otherwise, she feared, it could bring about even worse things for the woman who had once ruled the Broadway dance world...and she didn't even want to think about what _that_ might mean.

. . .

"This is the second time this semester that I've called you in here on unfriendly terms, Cassie," Carmen fidgeted with a fountain pen while leaning over her desk. "You know I don't like to do that."

"So one of my students turned me in, huh?" Cassie bit the inside of her cheek, sounding much braver than she felt. "Can't say I'm surprised. I guess I deserve it, this time." she snapped her head up to look at Carmen. "How long do I have to get my shit together before you throw me out of here for good?" she cut to the chase.

"Cassie, you know I never _ever_ want that to happen, but you have to meet me in the middle here. This hasn't been a final warning to you? Collapsing in your own studio wasn't enough? I think you've taken on more than you can handle."

"Carmen, please," Cassie sat up straight in her chair, her heart pounding. "I get it now, I really do. I blew you off last time and this is the result and I understand now that if I don't stop it's going to kill me. You know I don't beg…"

Carmen set the pen down, folding her hands together. "You need help. And I don't just mean therapy. You know I have to think of the school in addition to you. You know the prestige of the university you work at, and I can't let you keep getting away with what you're doing."

Tears formed in Cassie's emerald eyes but she swallowed hard and held them back, pinching at the inside of her hand as a pressure point. "I've been talking to Holly again," she blurted out. "She's coming over for dinner tonight, actually."

This sidetracked Carmen and piqued her interest enough to cut off what she'd been saying. "Oh? Cassie, that's great, truly...What about Shelby?" Carmen knew that Cass had once had a fling with Holly, but she'd also had a soft spot for Shelby.

Cassie shook her head, looking back down at her hands. "She wants nothing to do with me."

"Ah," Carmen pulled her chair out from behind her desk and moved it closer to Cassandra. "So is this dinner with Holly….a date?"

Cass responded so quickly her words got caught and she had to clear her throat. "No, nope, no way. We're just friends."

"You and Holly Holliday have never been _just_ friends," Carmen's eyes were disbelieving.

"We are this time around, cross my heart," Cassie did the movement just to make Carmen smile. "It's just good to have her back."

A pause. "Do you think her return has been helping you?"

Cassie nodded, slowly. "It's possible…"

Carmen reached out a hand and put it on Cassie's knee. "I still think you need more help. I'm not your therapist."

Cass's eyebrow shot to the ceiling. "You sure about that?"

"No," Carmen laughed a deep, throaty laugh. "Not really...Cassie I want you to get TA for this term. I know you've had Brody in the past and he's great, but he's busy right now and you need someone who can help you keep up while you stay on your feet. Someone you have in more than one class so they're around you throughout the day."

Cassie stood in protest. "You think I need a babysitter?" Her tone grew defensive, her cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

"Is that what I said?"

"It might as well have been what you said," Cassie crossed her arms. "No. No way."

"Hire Holly if you have to," Carmen suggested. "But you _will_ have an assistant by the end of the week."

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but the dead serious look on Carmen's face told her she would not be persuaded this time. "Mother," she teased scathingly. "It's already Wednesday."

Carmen shrugged, pointing to her big wooden doors. "Then I suggest you start looking."

Once Cassie was out of the room, Carmen rearranged some papers on her desk, dropping a few of them on the floor. She opened a file folder on her desk and bent to pick up the fallen documents, rereading the anonymous letter sent to her about her meeting with Cassie.

 _Madam Tibideaux,_

 _A few of us are concerned about Miss July's wellbeing. She had a breakdown in class today...shattered one of her mirrors and nearly passed out on the floor. She collapsed and seemed a little...out of it, for lack of better phrase. We don't want her to lose her job over this, and we don't to make it a huge public issue or anything. It just seems like you're pretty close to her, and we wanted to make sure someone was checking in on her. It's clear she needs help and we'd hate to see anything bad happen to her._

 _Thank you and have a good day,_

 _Anonymous_


	8. The Roads Chosen and Unchosen

**Another one!**

 **Chapter 8:** **The Roads Chosen and Unchosen**

Flopping down onto his bed, Kurt picked up his phone. He was about to launch the Facebook app, intending to get caught up on the lives of some their other friends from back home, when a thought struck him. A thought he'd been having almost non-stop since that night at Callbacks not too long ago.

He opened the contact list on his phone and found the number the tall, dark and devastatingly handsome young man had given him. He'd located the number, looked at it on the screen, and then failed to dial it so many times that he could probably do it with his eyes closed. He flipped over onto his back and groaned, throwing his arm over his face.

 _Why are you such a coward?_ he asked himself for at least the five hundredth time. _What's so scary about dialing a freaking phone number?_

He thought back to a time when his ex-boyfriend Blaine had changed his life - his entire mindset, in fact - with one word: **courage**. As in, where had _his_ gone? Had he left it behind in Lima with Blaine? They'd broken up for good reasons (Blaine's infidelity not the least of them), but he would never forget the inspiration he'd drawn from that one simple word. He probably wouldn't have gotten through high school without it.

New York was a large, scary, almost overwhelming place, but Kurt had believed himself to be equal to the challenge of living and going to school there, chasing his dreams no matter how badly the odds might be against him. There was no way he would have gotten into NYADA without that belief, that essential bravery. And now he was so intimidated that he couldn't even dial a phone number, too afraid to speak to the first guy he'd met since Blaine that really intrigued him? _No._ He turned over onto his side, picked up the phone again. _You can do this._ He took in a giant gulp of air, blew it out. _You can do this._

Rolling his eyes at himself, he tapped the name - "Starchild" - on the screen, put the phone to his ear, and listened to the ring. He half-hoped the call would go to voicemail, still not entirely sure of himself. Then the ringing stopped, and the deep, husky voice that hadn't left his mind since that night answered.

"You're go for Starchild. Make it worth my while."

Kurt swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. _Courage._

He coughed, wishing he'd brought a glass of wine with him. "Um, hi. Mister...Starchild?" He cringed. _Mister Starchild?_ "I'm - I mean, this is Kurt Hummel. We - that is, you and I - met at _Callbacks_ , a few nights ago. You probably don't remember, but -"

"Of course I remember," Starchild drawled. Kurt's face heated at the sound of his voice. It was like silk and crushed velvet. "How could I forget? The cute boy from...Ohio, wasn't it?"

 _Cute? Me? Oh, God._ "Yes. Ohio." Kurt laughed, hoping he didn't sound completely demented. "That's right. Good memory. Um...how have you been? Or, how are you?" He imagined a giant hole in the earth opening in front of him, waiting to swallow him up.

"Never better, boy from Ohio. I'm actually glad you called."

"You are? Why?" Kurt smacked himself in the forehead. "I mean, thanks. I'm glad too." The giant hole in the earth loomed larger, beckoning him, urging him to dive in now and save himself further embarrassment. "Very glad, I think. Am I making any sense at all, or are you about to call the authorities on your other phone?"

Starchild laughed. _Dear sweet Barbra. Even his laugh sounds like music_. "Why in the world would I do that? You need to relax, Kurt Hummel. Take a moment. Breathe."

Kurt closed his eyes, tried to do as he'd been told. All he could see were stars. The hole in the earth shrank, folded in on itself, slowly disappearing from sight. Air found its way into his lungs, somehow.

"Let's try this again," he said. "Hi. This is Kurt Hummel. We met at _Callbacks_ a few nights ago. I finally worked up the courage to call you after staring at your number for days. And how are _you?"_

He could swear he actually heard Starchild's smile over the phone. The breath he'd been holding was finally released. _Courage._

"How am I?" Starchild sounded bemused, if a cosmic being could be described as such. "I'm doing just fine, Kurt Hummel. So pleased to hear from you at last."

If the vast entirety of heaven could be reduced down to a single, small space, Rachel thought, it would be within the confines of Quinn's arms, pressed against her warm body, their lips connecting gently to make little smacking sounds over and over again. Her disbelief in Quinn's presence slowly but surely dissolved further with each kiss, overjoyed laughter bubbling up in her chest, threatening to boil past the beatific smile that spread across her face.

"I'm so happy you're here!" she finally exclaimed, pulling away even as Quinn pursed her lips for another soft, sweet kiss. "You don't know how much I've dreamed about this, Quinn."

The blonde ex-cheerleader's body reminded her just how much she herself had dreamt about it, humming in contentment with Rachel's front snuggled up against hers. She hadn't felt this good in ages, her blood heating up with every look, every touch, every word. Hunger wasn't a word she normally associated with this kind of thing, but that was exactly how she felt, holding the petite girl in her arms. Hungry for Rachel's dark eyes to meet hers, for her hands to touch her everywhere, for her mouth to form the shape of her name.

"Say that again."

Rachel blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry - say _what_ again?"

"My name. I love the way your mouth looks when you say it...the way it sounds."

"Quinn."

A delicious shiver rolled down Quinn's spine. "Say it again. Slower, this time. Please."

"Quinn," came the soft reply, drawn out like a sigh. "I love you."

"God, Rachel. I love you too. So much. I can't believe I'm here either. It's like...like just the thought of seeing you, touching you, hearing your voice in my ear, it's all that's been getting me through this semester."

Rachel pecked Quinn's lips again, smiling into the kiss. "I know the workload at Yale has been frightening at times - but I'm so proud of how you've handled it all. I'm not surprised, though. As long as I've known you, every time something's gotten in your way, you've found a way to go over, around, or right through it."

"Except you. No matter what I did, I couldn't get past you."

"That's only because you finally decided you didn't _want_ to get past me. Granted, I didn't make it easy, but would you really have wanted things any other way?"

Quinn had to take a moment to think about that one. When the words came to her, she closed her eyes, biting her lip at the memories they invoked. Memories of harsh, unmeant words, of long, hidden looks, of questions asked and answers denied.

"I...I don't think you were the only one who didn't make things easy, as far as our interactions went. It took way too long for me to realize that I was only telling myself and everyone else that I hated you only because what I felt for you was _so_ the opposite of hate. That I was afraid of what that meant for me, for my relationship with my family...for my future, even."

Rachel's eyes were soft as she watched the pain of those turbulent times wash over Quinn's pale, beautiful face. She was almost certain that pain would always be there whenever they discussed that portion of their shared past, no matter how hard she tried to soothe it away with murmured words and reassuring touches. Forgiveness, Rachel knew, was a hard thing in the Fabray family - and for Quinn, forgiving herself for the things she'd said and done was the hardest thing of all.

"You came around in the end, and that's what matters. Every choice, every decision you've made, Quinn - they've all been the right ones. Don't ever, ever forget that."

Sighing, Quinn hugged Rachel even closer, as though the other girl was a shield against that long-ago pain. She knew that what Rachel said was true, that every road she'd taken had been part of the correct route on the way to their future, and yet...sometimes she still closes her eyes and sees a little face, blurry around the edges now, with a head of dark hair that will almost certainly turn blonde one day and a nose almost exactly like her own, and wonders where that unchosen road might have led them.

"I'm trying," she said simply, pressing a kiss to Rachel's forehead.

They lay in silence for a while after that, until the hunger in Quinn rose up once more, fiercer and stronger, and would not be sated until she heard her name cried out, not whispered, again and again; until she heard herself gasp out Rachel's several times, fingers clawing at her girlfriend's flesh, and they fell asleep naked and tangled together even as the New York City sun was just beginning to rise.

Santana swallowed hard as she worked up the audacity to enter Cassandra July's office after the dance instructor's breakdown the week before. She figured that once she'd snapped at Miss July like she had, she'd be on dance belt duty for sure. Although she'd already guessed her fate, she went into the meeting with her teacher feeling slightly optimistic. Maybe Cassandra was just going to thank her for staying to help?

 _Not likely._ Santana rolled her eyes at herself, though only mentally. Standing in front of Cassandra, who hadn't yet bothered to look up from her paperwork to greet her student, Santana didn't think it wise to risk having an attitude. Not so early in the day, after such a close call.

"Thanks for coming in, Lopez," Cassandra looked up briefly, nodded her head towards the chair in front of her desk to tell Santana to sit, and looked back down at her papers. "Shut the door before you sit down." she sounded annoyed and Santana chewed at her lip.

 _Is it too late to transfer to NYU? Or move to France?_

There was a stark silence between the two as Cassandra finished up the work she was doing. Santana glanced around the prestigious NYADA office, giving a small nod of approval. Cassandra was a minimalist, but she had a noticeable style; black, white and greyscale suited her. Her degrees decked the wall behind her, in addition to a picture of her performing in some sort of ballet: her posture was impeccable, her muscles incredibly defined, and the focus clear in her dazzling eyes. Santana's eyes scanned Cassandra's desk. Her jaw nearly dropped when she saw a picture in the far corner: Cassandra, Shelby Corcoran, and another woman that Santana didn't recognize, grinning from ear-to-ear at whoever was taking the picture. They held each other close, obviously good friends.

 _With Shelby C? Rachel is going to flip her shit when I tell her…_

Cassandra cleared her throat and Santana snapped her head up to lock eyes with the woman. Cassandra's were particularly gorgeous, an emerald green that she'd never noticed before. Although she didn't want to upset the woman any more than she already had - for some ungodly reason Santana couldn't explain, she longed for Cassandra's approval - she blurted out a question, cutting off whatever she'd originally planned on saying.

"You're friends with Shelby Corcoran?"

Cassandra's previously wide eyes narrowed sharply. The emerald shade turned to a lighter jade, sending a shiver down Santana's arms. Her question was ignored.

"Thank you for coming in. I'm sure your freshman schedule is obnoxious…"

Santana straightened her back, knowing Cassandra had heard her question perfectly and had pointedly chosen to avoid it. _If she wanted to keep that friendship a secret, she wouldn't have a framed picture on her damn desk._

"I have a proposition for you, Lopez." Cassandra let out a long sigh, closing the folder she had been working on and shoving it to the side. She reached for her travel mug and took a long drink from it before setting it down and pressing her lips together. "Do you have a job anywhere? On or off campus?"

A smirk of surprise raised Santana's lips and she held back the urge to laugh. Of all the things she'd been expecting to hear from Cassandra, that was at the bottom of the list. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised one eyebrow, her interest piqued. "No...not that it's any of your business," she said, aware that she was taking a chance by being snarky, yet unable to help herself. It was just her personality, she reasoned, sure that Cassandra was well acquainted with it by now anyway.

"It's my business if I'm looking to employ you, smart ass," Cassandra quipped back with a smirk of her own. This girl was a spitfire, and it intrigued her.

Santana blinked rapidly. _Employ me?_ "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, Miss July."

Cassandra barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes, as if she'd just expected Santana to know exactly what was going on. "I'm talking about needing a TA for the year. My usual is busy as hell because he's an upperclassman and you show a lot of promise - despite the fact that your attitude needs more than a few adjustments. You'd be working for me full time, on top of taking my classes, including some weekends. I need more help around this hell hole than I'm willing to admit, and you seem like you have your shit mostly together, which is more than I can say for most of the underclassmen at this school. And oh, by the way - this is your interview, so don't blow it."

It took Santana a minute to fully process all that Cassandra had said to her, the woman spoke so quickly. Once she ordered her thoughts, she let out a breath in surprise. She had been looking for somewhere to work, and this woman was so...fascinating. Everyone else seemed to hate her, but there was some part of her that Santana knew she was seeing differently. Santana had a knack for analyzing people and seeing every side of them - a talent most people lacked. It came in handy in situations like this; any other dancer in her class would call her crazy for accepting an interview, let alone a _job,_ with "Crazy Cassie July." But Santana knew, as obnoxious as the professor had so far proved to be, she had to be more than just her unflattering nickname. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime: even with all of Cassandra's well-documented career mistakes, her name on Santana's resume would not go unnoticed. Besides that practical consideration, there was the simple fact that Santana wanted to know what the woman's deal was. _She reminds me of me, somehow. She's a bitch and people always judge her at face value. They don't take the time to understand why she is the way she is. But I will._

Santana's confused look turned into a dazzling smile. She changed her posture and stared at Cassandra, confidently. "I would love the opportunity to work with you, Miss July."

Cassie bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Is that kind of kiss-assery supposed to impress me, Lopez?"

Santana kept up her smile when she said, "Not you exclusively."

An actual smile spread across Cassandra's face. Wouldn't Carmen Tibideaux be pleased?

Santana tapped her pen against her history notebook, lost in thought. Although these review questions were due in class the next afternoon, she couldn't take her mind off of the interview she'd had with Cassandra earlier in the day. She was positive she was the only one being asked about the position, but that didn't guarantee she would get it (she felt like nothing was ever guaranteed with Cassandra July), and for some reason it was something she found herself truly wanting. And her mind kept wandering back to that picture on Cassandra's desk, that framed photo of her with Shelby and that other woman, whoever she was. Coach C had certainly never mentioned being friends with the Broadway legend, but that didn't mean much, if anything. It was rare that Shelby Corcoran ever talked about her personal life, after all; she was a listener, and more often than not Santana found herself spilling her life story to _her_ and not the other way around.

Closing her history book with the awareness that she wasn't going to get her work done, not with this constant nagging in the back of her head. Santana decided to do some investigating. She hoisted her laptop up onto her bed, where she was laying on her stomach. Facebook was already pulled up, so she clicked on Shelby's name to write her a private message.

 **Hey, Coach C. Just wanted to check in with you, I know I told you I'd let you know how things are going in New York. NYADA is great, just stressful. There's a lot of dancing which makes me tired literally all the time, but I actually kind of love it. Rachel's being her typical over-organized self. Kurt has found himself a man even more spectacular than he is, if you can believe that. You and I should catch up sometime in person, since we're in the same city and all. Oh, and my dance teacher is a psycho, but she offered me a job as her TA and I think I'm going to take it. I think you might know her. Cassandra July?**

She hit send before she could think about it being a bad idea and returned her attention back to her history questions. It was just a gen ed she needed to get out of the way, but she had to pass it to keep her scholarship and get her degree. She answered a few questions, albeit distractedly, before she heard the ping of a reply. She snapped her head up so fast her neck cracked.

Rubbing at her neck with a soft _ow_ , she read Shelby's reply:

 **Santana, I haven't been your coach for a year. I think it's okay to call me Shelby. I'm glad to hear that everyone is doing well, even though you're all busy. I hope you don't like sleeping, because New York is seriously not the place to be if that's that case. I don't think I've actually slept since before I adopted Beth, actually, but that's beside the point. As far as Cassandra July being your dance teacher, I extend my apologies. I should have warned you, since I knew you three were going to NYADA. Look, I wouldn't take that TA position with her. The school pays great and all, but she's not worth it to work with. Do yourself a favor and get a job as a barista somewhere instead. Trust me.**

Although Santana was taken aback by Shelby's response, she forced herself to reread it a few times. _So Shelby and Miss July are not friends? Then why would Miss July have her picture on her desk? They looked pretty friendly to me…_

She longed to know more. What was so bad about Cassandra (besides maybe some aspects of her hard-ass personality) that being a barista in some random ass coffee shop was better than being her TA full time?

Santana quickly typed a reply.

 **She has a picture of you, her, and some other woman sitting on the desk in her office. You're all smiling, or did she Photoshop that to make herself seem less lonely than she is?**

Santana decided it best to be straightforward if she wanted the dirt on the situation. If Shelby thought it best that she didn't take this job, she'd better have a good reason.

The older woman took a few minutes to respond, and this time Santana didn't even bother turning her attention back to her homework while she awaited the reply.

 **We were friends at one point, Santana. I'd rather not get into it. In fact, I just had this talk with Holly (the other woman in the picture). She's just bad news. Not someone whose habits you want to pick up. Her personality is toxic, and she'll tear you down for her own personal gain without ever thinking about your feelings. She was my best friend, and she broke the heart of everyone around her. Don't get too close.**

 _What a specific warning._ Santana blinked at the screen, unsure of how to respond. Despite Shelby telling her to stay away, she still wanted the position. True to her rebellious nature, Shelby's warning almost made her want it more. Not that she would actually tell Shelby that, of course. It wasn't worth the argument if she was just going to do it anyway.

She glanced at the time on her computer. It was 11:30 PM, her homework still wasn't finished, and she had an early day tomorrow. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Cassandra's number.

"What?" Cassandra answered, her voice raspy, aware that the caller was her student. She'd given Santana the number to use only if she was going to accept the job and threatened her about using the number for anything else.

"When do I start?" Santana responded, resuming her tapping of the pen on her notebook. A thought occurred to her; holding the phone between her head and shoulder, she went to Shelby's Facebook page, scrolling through her friends list to try and find this Holly woman. She'd recognize her face once she saw it.

"I take my coffee black and practically boiling. 7 AM on Wednesday. _Don't_ be late."

Santana smiled as the line went dead.


End file.
